The Officer in the Oubliette
by BlindAssassinUK
Summary: Events conspire to send Brennan and Booth to London for the second time – murder, fun and romance ensues.  Think "Yanks in the UK", only a tad more realistic...
1. Victims of Success

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter One: Victims of Success**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**AN: Thanks a million to MiseryMaker for the read-through. :)  
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The Jeffersonian 

**Seeley Booth** swiped his ID card through the digital reader and upon hearing the familiar high-pitch beep, he jogged up the steps to the forensic platform that took pride of place in the Jeffersonian's Medico-Legal Lab. He paid scant attention to the part fleshy collection of bones on the shiny, highly-polished stainless steel table and instead focused in on the one person he was hoping would be working late on a Friday night. She was standing next to Angela and leafing through a thick wad of paper, as he drew closer, he could make out rows of closely-typed numbers and letters spread across the pages. She looked busy, a little harassed, and he knew he should do the decent thing and catch up with her on Monday morning, but he was never very good at being patient.

"Camille, you're looking particularly beautiful this evening." He opened, giving her his trademark charm smile.

"First, don't call me "Camille". And second, I'm not in a particularly giving mood right now, Seeley, and so if it's a favour you're after, you're bang out of luck." She didn't look up from the printed pages of numbers and letters.

"Did I miss something?" Booth asked, looking to Angela for advice.

"The Jeffersonian Board requested an emergency audit and so Cam had to postpone her vacation to Hawaii."

"I didn't postpone it, Angela, I cancelled it. Why for the love of god aren't these figures adding up? You know, I'm a doctor, not a freaking bean counter."

"Don't you have people who can do that kind of stuff for you?" He asked, trying to be helpful.

"Yes. I do, _Seeley_." She replied testily. "But I need to check their findings before submitting my report to the Board. And right now their findings are not adding up. Or maybe mine aren't adding up. At this point, I'm not sure which set of figures is wrong...maybe both are. Ugh, I should be knocking back Cosmo's right about now." Cam bemoaned, as she consulted her elegant silver wristwatch, quickly calculating the time difference between D.C. and Hawaii.

Angela caught his eye and grimaced. "So, what can we help you with, G-Man?" Given her overly bright tone, he sensed the artist had given up trying to placate her boss long ago and now was simply trying to ignore the issue.

"I need to borrow Bones."

"Doctor Brennan is in her office. Don't you think you should ask her if she'll consent to being 'borrowed' before you ask me?" Cam said pointedly as she continued flipping briskly through the pages in her hands.

"I need to run something past you first."

"Oh, god." She exclaimed as she looked up from the rows of numbers and letters and fixed him with a look of nervous anticipation.

"What? You don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"It doesn't matter – the point is you've come to me because you know Doctor Brennan is not going to like whatever it is you have planned, and you want me to play the 'boss card'."

"Well, you _are_ the boss, Camille." He tried, still banking on his ability to charm his former lover.

"Don't call me...ugh; you know I don't have the energy for this. Just tell me what you need Doctor Brennan for."

"I've been asked to give a presentation on FBI liaison with external organisations and agencies - particularly to explain the arrangement we have in place with the Jeffersonian."

"Sounds riveting and I suppose you need Doctor Brennan to explain our side of the arrangement?"

"Bingo."

"And when is this presentation due to take place?"

"Three weeks on Monday."

"Fine." Cam sighed, her attention still mostly directed at the paperwork in her hands. "I appreciate the prior notice, and while I'm sure Doctor Brennan will resent spending time away from the lab, I don't imagine this will cause a problem."

"There's a catch...or rather a further consideration."

"Of course there is."

"I'm gonna need Bones for a week."

"What kind of presentation lasts a week? I'm sorry, Booth, but I can't sanction that. Doctor Brennan's time is precious; and as I'm sure she'll be only too happy to tell you, her expertise is in great demand, and so you have a day...that's the best I can do."

"A day isn't gonna cut it. We need to, um, factor in travel time."

"Okay, okay, so you can _'borrow'_ Doctor Brennan for two days, but that's my final offer." Cam turned her full attention back to the report, whose details were starting to swim and blur in front of her eyes, and tried to focus.

"Sorry, Cam, but it'll take the best part of a day to get to London and I need her at her best for the four-day conference – and so factoring in the journey back, a week is the minimum we'll need."

"I said two days, Seeley. Besides, we have the new Aztec exhibition opening on the 4th and Doctor Brennan is due to...hold up...did you say _London_?" Cam clenched the pages in her right hand and then deposited both hands at her waist. Her already hectic day had just gotten a lot more complicated.

"Yeah. We've been asked to go to London – how cool is that!"

"It's not 'cool'. It's _inconvenient_, is what it is. Dammit, Seeley, I need Doctor Brennan here."

"And we need her there." He tried to keep his voice even, not to push, but the truth was that he hadn't driven over there to ask Cam for permission, he had come to tell her that the decision had already been made.

"Who's pushing for this, Seeley?"

"Cullen, but I get the sense that he's being pressured into it. He doesn't want to take me off cases for a week, any more than you want Brennan away from the lab, but I guess the powers that be think it's a good idea."

"Perfect. So I'm going to be down a world-renowned and seriously-in-demand-forensic-anthropologist for a week and there's nothing I can do about it."

"I bet that Cosmo is sounding more tempting by the second, huh."

"Don't joke around, Seeley, I'm pissed."

Angela, in an effort to ease the tension, spoke up. "I'm sure one of the interns could help cover Brennan's duties at the lab."

"Possibly, but what about the other work we have lined up: the new exhibit and the visit from the Egyptian Ambassador. I know for a fact that he won't be happy to meet with anyone other than Doctor Brennan. Christ, Booth, you're really leaving me high and dry here."

"It's not _me_. I didn't ask for this, I'm as pissed off as you are."

"Somehow I doubt that." Cam huffed as she again tried to focus on the now slightly crumpled report.

"So, you'll mention this to Bones?"

"Uh uh, no way – it's your party, you can tell her."

"I was kinda hoping that you might handle this, you know, as her _boss_."

"Forget it. This is on the FBI, and as their representative, you can have that particular pleasure."

"Great." Booth said weakly as his stomach dropped a little. He wondered if he should catch up with Brennan after the weekend – to give him a chance to prepare for the onslaught of indignant rage that was sure to follow his telling her. But if she found out that her co-workers knew what was in store for days before she did, he knew his life wouldn't be worth living. And so he fixed a mostly unconvincing smile on his face before he turned his back on the two women and left the platform.

"Betcha you could use a Cosmo right about now, huh, Seeley." Cam shouted after him.

"Nah, I'm good. Bones is a pussycat, you know that, Camille." He fired back without turning around.

"Don't call me Camille". She demanded, unable to resist teasing him further.

"Then don't call me Seeley."

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Three Weeks Later: Sunday - somewhere over the Atlantic

Booth had been right to be concerned about telling Brennan. The scientist had for the best part of two weeks remained adamant that she wasn't going anywhere. In the final week before they were due to leave for England she lobbied the Jeffersonian board and even Director Cullen himself. But as Booth suspected, it didn't do her any good. The decision had been made for them. Truth be told, though, he wasn't all that upset at the prospect of spending a week away from D.C. So the last time he went to London with Bones he'd made an idiot of himself by trying to convince her not to sleep with her British counterpart...who then ended up being murdered...but aside from that, and the shitty weather, and the pathetic excuse for a hire car he'd been given, the trip had been sorta fun. And it wasn't like he got the chance to travel overseas all the time. No, he reasoned, as he tried to get comfortable in his economy class seat, he didn't often get the chance to take a time-out and so he was going to enjoy this week, no matter what it, or Bones, threw at him.

**xxx**

**Temperance Brennan** was still enraged. She would _not_ be 'loaned out' by the Jeffersonian just because the FBI wanted to play nice with the Metropolitan Police in the UK. She had responsibilities, of which the bureaucrats on both sides of the Atlantic had no appreciation. But, she acknowledged as she finished off another glass of iced sparking water, the truth was she _had_ been 'loaned out', and nothing she had to say on the subject had made the slightest difference. And why was she in this position? The answer sat about twenty rows back in economy class.

Okay, so when she applied a degree of rationality, she had to concede that it wasn't entirely Booth's fault – she did enjoy murder-solving, he certainly didn't force her to do the work they did. And as the years had passed, she believed that she was as committed to their partnership as he was. But still, she refused to accept that Booth had done all he could to reject the assignment. In fact, on the ride to Dulles that morning he'd bounced around in his seat as he told her about all the things he was hoping to do in London this second time around. Looking back, he didn't strike her as a person who was unhappy with his lot.

Brennan gratefully accepted a refill from one of the cabin crew attendants, and immediately took a sip. She knew from experience that she would feel decidedly groggy once they landed at Heathrow if she didn't keep herself fully hydrated. She then set the glass down on the tray table positioned next to her cot and closed her eyes. She ignored the low whine of the aircraft's engines and concentrated on blocking out the noise made by her fellow passengers, grateful that the seat next to her was unoccupied. Just as she started to relax and even begin to believe that sleeping might be a possibility, thoughts of her partner again filled her mind. Maybe she was being too hard on Booth. After all, she knew that he didn't earn so much money that he could easily afford to jet off to Europe whenever he felt like it. Booth spent his vacation time with Parker, and the two of them usually went camping somewhere in the woods, or occasionally to the beach at Ocean City in Maryland. For as long as she'd known Booth, the only time he'd gone on vacation without Parker was when he had been dating Tessa. And that was years ago. So maybe she ought to be more sensitive. Maybe he was excited about the trip because it was a chance to visit another country, another continent, without it denting his bank balance. Perhaps this was one of those times Booth had talked about - when you 'took for one the team', or was she confusing the reference with some other sporting cliché of the type that always seem to sail right over her head.

Feeling the anger within begin to dissipate, although it was still there and liable to rear its head if the trip lasted even an hour longer than promised, she pulled the soft flight blanket up to her neck and breathed a few deep breaths. She was tired, being constantly furious for three weeks tended to do that to a person. And so she took another steady breath and tried willing herself off to sleep.

**xxx**

Booth was bored - mind-numbingly so. The in-flight magazine was a bust and he couldn't watch a movie on his personal TV because the stupid thing was broken. The cabin crew were very apologetic, but as the flight was fully booked they were unable to move him elsewhere to a seat with a working TV. He'd tried sleeping but couldn't manage it. The fact the two kids in the row behind him kept bumping the back of his seat might have had something to do with it, but also, he couldn't fully relax knowing that his partner was still mad at him. He knew that she understood that he hadn't asked for the assignment, but still, she somehow managed to make him feel like he was ultimately responsible. Maybe he should have toned down his good mood on the way to the airport that morning. But the truth was that he was excited about the trip, not the actual work part of it, that was sure to be boring as hell, but he was thrilled about being gifted the opportunity to take in some of the sights and bum around London for a week with Bones. The best part, it wouldn't cost him a dime. In fact, he was being financially compensated for the extra hours he would have to put in. It was a 'win win' situation. You know...if he discounted the fact that his partner had pretty much stopped talking to him unless their conversation related to their work.

**xxx**

Brennan had given up on the idea of sleeping. With a defeated huff, she manoeuvred the cot into a sitting position and retrieved her book from her carry-on luggage. She had been trying to read the book over the course of the last few weeks, but never managed to get into it. This time, however, without white hot anger raging through her veins, she managed to lose herself in the words and the story. That was until a hyperactive FBI agent flung himself in the empty seat next to her and asked if she wanted to play "Eye Spy".

"No. I most certainly do not. I am trying to read my book, and besides, isn't that a game for young children?"

"Not necessarily. There's no rule to say we can't play."

"Fine, but like I said, I'm reading." Brennan held her book in front of her face, not enough distance from her nose to make reading the words a little painful and nausea-inducing. But she had at least blocked him from her view.

"Let me guess: "The Da Vinci Code""?

She knew full well he could read the title of the book she was holding. The man was a menace. "The 'what' Code?" She obviously couldn't help herself.

"Okay, well maybe not...ah, I got it: "Men are from Venus, Women are from Mars"".

"What a ludicrous notion."

"No? Okay, okay, I know I'm right this time: "Margaret Mead - the tale of the Timbuktu Tribe and how they invented plates.""

She started to argue with him but realised that he was only goading her for humour's sake. "I see. You're attempting to be amusing."

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well why don't you try to be amusing back in your own seat."

"Aw, Bones, come on...you can't stay mad at me forever. I said I'm sorry that you're going to miss out on introducing the Aztec exhibition."

"Don't forget that I'm also missing out on meeting with the Egyptian Ambassador."

"That too...I'm sorry, okay? Look, how about we just try and enjoy the week, you never know it might be as stimulating as the Aztec thing."

Brennan placed her book on her lap and considered telling him that he was most certainly incorrect about that, but then she remembered the promise she had made to herself (to try and relax and allow Booth to enjoy this trip as a gesture of partnership). She might not want to travel to England; she could do that any time, but that didn't mean that Booth wasn't looking forward to the trip and viewing it as a vacation of sorts.

"I doubt it, but you might be right. I _do _enjoy London, the history and the architecture...do you think we'll have enough time to visit some of the sights while we're there?"

"Absolutely we will. I've gone though the timetable Cullen gave me and we should have time to fit in some touristy things around our presentations to the Met Police."

"I _would_ like to catch up with my friend at the Natural History Museum, Professor Woods. Some members of his team are out in Saudi Arabia working on the 'Saadanius' primate find and we've been in contact recently about the Jeffersonian playing a role."

"Does that mean that you'll need to go to Saudi Arabia?"

"Maybe, but I might send Ms Wick on this occasion and perhaps journey there once we know more about the find or if more fossilised remains are found."

"Great. Because you know that we need you in D.C."

Brennan nodded her understanding and just then noticed one of the cabin crew approaching; they, it would appear, had spotted Booth sitting in the seat next to her.

"I think you had better go back to your seat. Someone's coming over."

"Huh... oh, _great_. I've been thinking, how come you scored a first class seat? The FBI is picking up the cheque this time, right? You're not flying on the Jeffersonian's dime."

"So Doctor Saroyan informs me."

"Then how come you're not back there in 'cattle class' with me?" He queried before fixing his best charm smile on his face for the benefit of the attractive female crew member who had just reached their seats.

"I don't know." Brennan said as she watched with amusement as her partner employed one of his patented smiles.

"Doctor Brennan, is this gentleman a friend or acquaintance of yours?" The auburn haired woman enquired.

"He's both, but he doesn't have a first class ticket."

"Gee...thanks, Bones." He shifted forward in his seat, giving the impression that he wasn't going to put up a fight about staying there.

"You know, the FBI doesn't fly its agent's first class, not if they can help it." He persisted in questioning her.

"But I'm not an agent, Booth; I'm a private contractor, of sorts."

"It all comes out of the taxpayers' pocket. I oughta lodge a letter of complaint about the Government playing fast and loose with our money."

"Well, you have another three hours before we land, why you don't go back to your seat and work on it."

Booth knew he couldn't stall any longer, but as he stepped into the aisle, he shot his partner a look of mock disdain and snatched up the unopened bag of cashew nuts which were next to her glass of water and stuffed them into his pocket. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same.

"Fine. I'll go." He huffed and started back down the aircraft.

"See you in three hours." Brennan said, picking up her book again. She mostly managed to keep a small smile at bay.

"Sure, but only if I don't die of boredom before then."

"You can't literally die from ennui, Booth. However, studies have shown that boredom can lead people to experience feelings of despondency and emptiness, which can in turn encourage the development of health detriments such as smoking, drinking or taking narcotics to fill the void."

"Good to know, Bones. Good to know." He offered as he made his way back to cattle class.

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**AN: Thanks for reading. :)  
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	2. The Big Kahuna

_**AN: Thanks loads to those who reviewed. I really do appreciate all your comments. Thanks also to those 'favouriting' and 'alerting' this story.**_

_**And extra special thanks with a cherry on top to MiseryMaker for reading this chapter over for me.  
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_**Disclaimer: Not mine.  
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**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Two: The Big Kahuna**

New Scotland Yard, Metropolitan Police Headquarters: Monday 9:15 a.m.

"I can't believe you're sitting pretty in some fancy-ass rented apartment and I'm stuck in that dump of a place." Booth took a big bite of his banana, which, he tasted with dismay, was past its prime and took a seat next to Brennan. He looked around the still-empty conference room which was located on the top floor of New Scotland Yard and did a quick calculation of the seats in his head – he and Bones were going to be 'playing' to an audience of approximately 200 people.

"Are you going to mention the taxpayer's money again?"

"I should. This sucks." He whispered as he leaned in: "You know I have to share a bathroom with about twenty other guys."

"It's only for a week, Booth." Brennan said tightly as she consulted her speaking notes again, the anxious churning in the pit of her stomach making her feel slightly queasy. Despite giving countless presentations over the course of her career, she could never quite shake the tension and fear she felt before each one. She could deliver a lecture to a packed auditorium of eager, questioning students or to a room filled with colleagues without batting an eye, but when it came to public speaking of a mostly non-academic variety, she floundered, so convinced was she that she didn't possess the 'personality' to pull it off successfully. Because she understood that in addition to what she had to say, she was also presenting herself for scrutiny, for judgement. It was the same reason that she hated promoting her books.

Knowing that Booth was going to speak first didn't help to dispel her anxiety. Her partner had the annoying knack of doing very little preparation but still managing to win over his audience. That's not to say his presentation was likely to lack substance or that his PowerPoint slideshow wouldn't be chock-full of impressive visual and audio effects, but he worked without any notes and yet he never seemed to veer off point or run over time. Brennan knew that if she didn't refer constantly to her notes, she would almost certainly exceed her thirty minute allocation.

"You okay, Bones?"

"Yes. I just want to read over my notes one final time. I see you're 'note-free' _again_." She said with just a hint of envious annoyance.

"Yeah. But don't worry, I won't embarrass you – it's all up here". Booth tapped his forehead and smiled when she huffed by way of a response before burying her head in her stack of notes again.

Just then, a tall, well-built man, smartly dressed in a black police uniform approached them. Booth stood up. Noticing the rank insignia on the officer's upper sleeve, he greeted him as "Sergeant". The other man introduced himself as "Sergeant Rob Jackson" and returned Booth's firm handshake.

"And this is my partner, Doctor Temperance Brennan." Brennan also stood to shake the officer's hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both. I just wanted to let you know that things should kick off in about twenty minutes. But in the meantime, there's coffee and tea in the anteroom, just to the right of the main door over there, and there's a rumour going round that there might be some pastries as well."

"Great. I'm starving." Booth said cheerfully as he absentmindedly patted his stomach, still holding onto his half-eaten banana. "I skipped breakfast and this ain't gonna cut it."

"They put you up at Bernard Morgan House, right?" Rob asked, his serious, handsome face at once breaking into a knowing grin.

"Yeah."

"Sharing a bathroom and a kitchen with twenty other blokes takes some getting used to, don't it."

"That's one way of putting it. You've bunked there before?"

"Just for a few weeks when I first joined the police. Hey, you should check out "Fratelli's Coffee Shop" down the road from there, on Hanover Street. They do great breakfasts. When I lived at BMH, I ate most of my meals there."

"Thanks for the tip."

"No worries. Anyway, I'll let you get on." Rob nodded a quick goodbye and walked briskly in the direction of anteroom he had informed them about.

Booth turned to Brennan, who was again shuffling through her stack of typed notes, and held out his arm in invitation. "Shall we?"

She was about to decline his offer when Booth linked his arm in hers and pulled. She started to protest, to tell him that she didn't need refreshments, she needed to read her notes, but he kept pulling and told her that she would be brilliant, just like every other time. Despite her nervousness, she felt a proud smile tug at the corners of her lips.

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Much to Booth's horror, the promise of food had indeed been a cruel rumour; well it was if you discounted the small plate of cookies that sat next to the neat row of coffee jugs on a large oak table at the end of the rectangular room. Worse still, the plate was covered with plastic wrap, and there was no way he (a foreigner!) was going to be the first one to tuck in. He poured some weak-looking coffee for himself and Brennan and walked past the pale blue china plate of cookies with a heavy heart.

"Here you go, Bones." He handed over her mug of black unsweetened coffee and took a sip of his own tepid drink. "You know, since we arrived I haven't had one decent cup of coffee. What's the deal...the coffee here isn't hot enough and the beers' too warm."

"Booth, the coffee's not good, I'll admit, but it's no worse than I've had at the Hoover. And if you want a cold beer, next time order 'Lager' instead of Beer."

"What's the difference?"

"All lagers are beers, but not all beers are lagers."

"Come again."

"Lager is a type of beer, Booth; the other category of beer is 'ale'. Lager is served cold, ice-cold if you want it."

"And you're an expert because?"

"It's common knowledge."

Booth shook his head and smiled. "Not that common."

Before Brennan could argue the point, he interrupted her as he recognised the tall older man who was making his way across the room toward them. "Okay, heads up, we have a 'big wig' approaching at 10 o'clock. Let's try to make a good impression, shall we."

"What? Are you implying that I would do otherwise?" Brennan looked scandalised, and if not for the fact that Booth knew the man walking over to them was their host, he might have cracked another smile.

"Special Agent Booth: it's a pleasure." The tall grey-haired man greeted him smiling openly.

"Commissioner Lewis, sir. Please let me introduce my partner: Doctor Temperance Brennan."

"Doctor Brennan. We are equally honoured to have you here."

Brennan returned the man's purposeful handshake and registered with a degree of surprise that her normally confident partner appeared nervous. Realising that the man they were talking to was likely very important, she stood up a little straighter.

"I spoke to your Director Cullen only yesterday evening and he again commended you both on your excellent solve rate and innovative detection techniques. You come to us highly recommended and we're very pleased to have you. I'm hoping you might clue us into some of your secrets during your presentations this morning."

"We'll certainly do our best, sir." Booth promised and tried to ignore the tension which had formed as an aching knot at the base of his spine. He was suddenly aware of the weight of their responsibility. They were representing the FBI, he and Bones together...they were there because Cullen thought they were the best of the best (who knew!)

"And I understand that you're going to be shadowing a couple of our officers in between your round of presentations."

"Yes, sir. We're looking forward to it."

"Excellent. Excellent. So, tell me, how was your journey across the 'Pond'?"

"Good, sir. Thank you."

"And we're treating you well?"

"Yes, absolutely." Booth lied; well he half-lied, Bones had certainly landed on her feet.

"Excellent. Now, unfortunately I must get on, but I hope to catch up with you both over the break. Before I go, I don't suppose you know if someone's laid some food on, do you?"

"There's a plate of cookies by the coffee jugs, sir."

"Bravo! One does like to see some initiative taken."

Brennan watched the retreating figure of the man who had Booth acting as nervous as she'd seen him. "Who was that?" She asked, only now taking a sip of her coffee.

"His official title is "Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis" – aka the "Big Kahuna"".

"I don't understand the reference."

"Like in that old movie...you know, it means the "Big Cheese", the "Main Man".

"None of that helps me, as again you're speaking in the vernacular. "Kahuna" is actually a Hawaiian word meaning, among other definitions, a priest, sorcerer or a minister?"

"I just meant that he's..."

"However, it also can apply to a person who is expert in their chosen profession. I assume this explains your reference."

"You know, Bones, sometimes it's like we're speaking two different languages."

"Well, perhaps if you didn't employ slang, unnecessary colloquialisms and obscure sports and popular culture references in your speech, I wouldn't have so much trouble trying to understand you."

Before Booth had a chance to comment further, the officer who had spoken to them earlier appeared and told them that the Commissioner would be starting his opening remarks in five minutes. They left their mostly-full coffee cups behind and followed Sergeant Jackson back into the conference room and retook their seats at the top table. With every step, Brennan felt nervous energy flooding her body, and more unsettling still, her partner was now looking equally tense.

**xxx**

A mere fifteen minutes later, Brennan watched her partner take to the stage. And true to form, he was brilliant. He walked the narrow line between being funny while avoiding being flippant. His presentation was heavy with detail, exclusively informational but it was never less than interesting and engaging. Exactly thirty minutes later, he wrapped up his speech, and then spent another twenty minutes taking questions. Then, all too soon, he was introducing her to the audience.

"Of course, doing my job, calling to account perpetrators of crimes would be a much taller and sometimes impossible order if not for the invaluable assistance of the Medico-Legal Lab at the Jeffersonian Institute. And so it is with great pleasure that I introduce my partner, Doctor Temperance Brennan. Doctor Brennan has been working on a regular basis with the FBI for four years now and I can honestly say that without her help, her expertise, our homicide solve rate wouldn't be half as good."

Brennan rose from her seat and held on tightly to the stack of speaking notes in her left hand. She walked to the centre of the stage, passing Booth on her way.

"I got 'em warmed up for ya, Bones." He whispered as they drew closer. Somehow this made her feel worse.

Brennan reached the wooden podium and carefully placed her note cards in front of her. She took a deep breath and forced her face into a smile. Then she started at the beginning.

Booth looked on from the back of the stage. He'd heard variations of her presentation a number of times but as before, he was enthralled. Her speech was dry in places and necessarily esoteric, but she breathed life and honest enthusiasm into subject matter which ordinarily would've have him and likely everyone else in the room struggling to stay awake. Her voice had taken on that almost breathless quality that always set his temperature rising a few degrees as she explained how de-fleshing techniques had advanced to the point where this method was employed in many forensics labs across North America (she modestly left out that this was in a large part down to her pioneering research). So she wasn't quite as modest when she moved on to discuss the finer points of examining signature bullet wound etchings in bone with a view to re-engineering the bullet itself, but hey, if he'd come up with the idea, he doubted he'd be coy about it. When, towards the end of her presentation, she came to the part where she explained the real world application of her scientific techniques and those of the squint squad, she really came into her own. And as Booth redirected his gaze at the sea of faces in the audience, he knew that they were thinking the same thing he was. She was brilliant.

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_**AN:**__ Barnard Morgan House is a real place. It's used by ex-police officers or those currently serving who are in the capital and need a cheap place to stay for the night. I think breakfast comes as part of the room rate charge, but I've conveniently ignored that fact in this story - it makes Booth's comparative hardship all the more fun._


	3. The Special Relationship

**_AN: Again, thanks ever so to MiseryMaker for reading this chapter through. : )_**

**_Disclaimer: Not Mine.  
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**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Three: The Special Relationship **

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The Sanctuary House – Monday, Early Evening

"Well, I'd say you two are a hit. And you've certainly earned your pint." Rob Jackson said as he slid a tall glass filled with chilled amber liquid over to Booth. "Now, what does the good doctor drink?"

"The same." Booth confirmed as he saluted the other man with his drink in thanks and knocked back a refreshing mouthful.

"Really? I wouldn't have pegged Doctor Brennan as a beer drinker."

"Yeah, she's a surprising woman." Booth put down his glass and reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet.

"No. These are on me." Before Booth could protest, Rob placed a £20 note down on the thickly polished wooden countertop."

"Thanks, man." Booth said before taking another satisfying drink.

"You take these over, and I'll wait on your partner's pint."

Booth formed a triangle shape with his hands and expertly picked up Rob's pint of lager, his own and also a large glass of red wine. He made his way back through the crowd of people to the entranceway of the dimly-lit pub and took a seat next to Brennan, who was listening intently to something the petite red-haired woman seated opposite was saying. They were seated in a small nook next to the window (Rob had informed them they were extremely lucky to have nabbed a table at all). It was a tight fit, but Booth wasn't about to complain.

"Oooh, drinks." Said the redhead as she leant forward to pick up the glass of wine. "I so need this."

"Rob is waiting on your drink." He explained to Brennan, as he moved in closer still, making way for a well-built man who was seemingly intent on grabbing the spare seat at the table next to their own.

"This place is jammed." He stated the obvious as he took another long drink, careful not to dig his partner in her side with his elbow as he did so.

"Yeah, it's a popular after-work destination for Offs and Civil Servants." Rob chimed in as he caught up with them. He handed over Brennan's pint of lager before taking a seat next to the redhead.

"Offs?" Brennan queried, sipping her drink. Booth watched her out the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the fact that she looked all kinds of cute as she sipped demurely at her pint like it was a glass of fine wine.

"Officers...Police Officers...or cops, I guess to you guys. Do you have a 'Local' back in D.C.?"'

"Yeah. I gotta say, though, I've never known it to get as busy as this place." Booth added.

"This is nothing; you should see this place when the 'footy's' on. Remember that time last year, Harry, when we were playing Portugal – it was murder in 'ere."

Harriet Randall nodded vigorously and quickly swallowed her mouthful of wine. "I lost a bloody shoe, if you can believe it!"

"I still don't know how you managed it." Rob laughed as he rested back in his seat.

"You make it sound like I was actively trying to lose it. I told you, I took my shoes off because I'd been on my feet all day...and then when we scored, everyone started jumping about and they got kicked across the floor. That was one interesting trip home on the Tube that night, believe me. I mean, the train was crawling with weirdoes and yet a woman wearing one shoe was the funniest sight ever."

"It _was _pretty funny, Har." Rob grinned as he knocked back a healthy drink of his pint.

"Shut-up." Harriet shot back as she tried unsuccessfully to hold back a smile of her own.

Booth liked them. Rob was a good guy, he could tell that right off the bat, and his partner was equally friendly and down to earth. In some ways, their dynamic mirrored his and Brennan's, what with their good-natured teasing of one another and the obvious professional commitment they had to each other. But whereas neither he nor Brennan had a significant other to speak of, Harriet was married and had only been back at work for a few months since taking time out to have her second child.

"Speaking of sports: are you interested in sinking a few beers and watching a game tomorrow night at my place?" Rob looked to Brennan and Booth. "No worries if you have other plans, but if you're at a loose end, you're more than welcome. You and Dave are coming, right Har?"

"We'll try, but it's not looking likely at this point. My mum was meant to babysit, but my sister's in town for the week and I think they might have plans to go out."

"Pity. I'm planning on making my famous chilli bean dip."

"Ugh...that stuff is lethal. Last time Dave ate some of your hideous concoction, I made him sleep in the spare room. The stench of garlic was terrible."

"Who's playing?" Booth asked, but honestly he wasn't bothered about the details. He had the chance of chilling out with a few beers and watching sports. Okay, so it was _soccer_ – but it was sport nonetheless. He was a man of simple tastes. Besides, Brennan had told him that she planned to spend the following evening visiting her friend at the Natural History Museum. And it certainly beat spending the evening eating take-out and watching TV in his room alone.

"Pens and the Caps." Rob replied as he finished off the last of his pint.

"Hockey! You guys are gonna watch the hockey?" Booth's good mood increased exponentially.

"Yeah. And now Crosby's back fit, we might just have a game on our hands."

"I thought you meant soccer...sorry, football."

"There's a footy match on at the weekend, and so if you're still around, you're welcome to come round and watch. You an ice hockey fan, Booth?"

Booth tried not to splutter into the remainder of his drink. "Yeah, I'm a Flyers fan, but I go and watch the Caps wherever I can. Count me in for tomorrow night. Bones has other plans though, right?"

Brennan nodded and thanked Rob for the invitation.

"That's too bad. Speaking of the Caps - the atmosphere at the Verizon Center is something else, ain't it? I caught a game there last year. Coincidentally, they were playing the Penguins that night – man, the crowd was hating on Crosby the whole game."

"You've been to D.C.?"

"A pal of mine moved out there a couple of years ago and I went over to see him. He's the one that got me interested in the hockey, and then I converted Harry's husband and a few guys at work. I liked D.C., it's a cool place...I can see from the look on your face that you don't agree."

"No...no - it's not that. Maybe it's just difficult to appreciate it when you spend most of your days processing dead bodies and trawling the streets for murderers. And besides, it's _not _Philly."

"I know what you mean. I've lived in London all my life and I know there are some really great sights to see and places to visit, but after I've put in a full week dealing with arseholes and crack heads, I just wanna shut my front door and keep the city out."

"I'll drink to that." Booth drained the last of his pint and stood up. "Next round's on me. Same again, Harriet?"

"I really shouldn't... Dave's had the kids all day and I promised him that I'd leave work on time for once and pick up a curry on the way home."

"Booth – get the woman a drink. No way she's going anywhere until she's had at least two glasses. Besides, I have the car with me, Har – I'll drop you home."

"Okay, not only are you going to give the impression to our lovely American guests that I'm an old soak, but also I live a forty minute drive from your place."

"Don't worry about the drive. It's a nice evening; I'll go past my place on the way and pick up Baxter, and after I drop you off, I'll take him for a walk on the common."

"Are you sure?" Harriet asked, trying not to get her hopes up. She_ really_ did want another glass of wine; after all, it had been another trying day. Not only that, she was enjoying herself. Doctor Brennan was so nice and very interesting to talk to, and as for Agent Booth...well, he was very easy on the eyes. Not to say that he too wasn't an interesting person, just that she was still trying to look past how ridiculously good looking he was. And just now as he stood there in front of her, wearing a light grey tailored suit, a crisp white shirt and burgundy tie...and a...the only word which came to mind was 'suggestive' red belt buckle with the word "Cocky" on it, she wondered if he and Doctor Brennan had a thing going on the side. _They had to be doing it, right?_

"Earth to Harriet...Har...so, are you staying or going?" Rob asked as he handed over his empty glass to Booth.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"She's staying." Rob confirmed and shot Booth a knowing smile. He liked that his partner was so predictable. Of course, she'd probably say the same of him.

Booth turned to Brennan and almost did a double take – she'd finished her drink and was holding out her glass, indicating she'd like another. _How did she finish it so fast?_ He took the glass from her and then reached down for his own. Walking back to the bar, he stepped right and then left and then right again as he weaved in and out of a swirling, disorganised mass of people. Rob was right, he thought as he was within sight of the bar, he and Bones _were_ a hit. Cullen was going to be pleased.

"What can I get you, mate?" The barman said as he finished slow-pouring a pint of Guinness and then handed it over to the man standing next to Booth.

"Three pints of Stella Artois and a large glass of red wine, thanks."

"What type of red do you want?"

Booth quickly surveyed the row of bottles behind the barman, as if the answer would somehow become apparent. "Crap...I'm not sure. One sec..." He leaned forward part way over the bar, his eyes scanning to the left until he spotted Bones. Just at that moment, she looked up towards the bar.

"Bones." He mouthed. "What wine is Harriet drinking?"

Brennan shrugged and then shook her head, indicating that she didn't have a clue what he was asking. He tried again, but before he could see her response, more people flooded in through the entrance door and blocked his field of vision. He waited a few seconds to see if they would move on, or at least hoping to catch a break in the crowd so that he could see her. It was no good.

"Ah, sorry." He addressed the slightly irritated-looking barman. "If you can make a start on the beers, I'll check on that wine order."

"So, you want three Stella's, right?"

"Yeah. Thanks...I'll back in a minute."

As he turned, he bumped smack into Brennan, who had appeared from out of nowhere behind him. He instinctively reached out and grabbed her by the upper arms, to steady them both.

"Ow, nice going, Bones." He moaned as they both at the same time looked down and watched as she removed the toe of her heeled shoe from atop his foot.

"Sorry. But I thought you might need some help. You were asking me something, but I couldn't make out what."

Then they looked up, and both seemed unsure of where to look as they realised how close they were.

"Oh, sure...thanks...it's just that I don't know what wine to order for Harriet. Any ideas?" Booth stared straight ahead into her eyes. He knew if he allowed his gaze to glide lower to her mouth, he'd be a dead man. _Don't look down, Seel. Don't do it. No good can come of it. Focus!_

"No. I...I'll go ask her." Brennan offered, but she made no effort to walk away.

It was then that Booth realised he still had hold of his partner. Dropping his hands away, as if he'd been scalded, he smoothed down his tie for no reason apart from nervous habit and told her "thank you." Turning back to the bar, he noticed the barman watching his partner as she walked away. Booth knew that look. He could recognise it at fifty paces. He _owned _that look.

"Ah hum..." Booth purposely broke the man's concentration.

"Yeah, yeah – three Stella's...I got it."

* * *

**_AN: I accept that Ice Hockey isn't all that popular in the UK and so Booth's lucky to have found a fellow fan. That said: I LOVE it. I was in D.C. over Christmas last year and was lucky enough to get tickets for the Caps v Pens. It was definitely one of the highlights of my trip. I've also seen the NY Rangers at MSG and watched the awesome Canucks when I visited Vancouver a couple of years ago. Hockey will never take the place of football in my heart, but it's a close second. :)_**

**_Also, for anyone interested, the pub mentioned in this chapter is real. It's located near Scotland Yard, and it was my 'local' for a couple of years when I worked in Westminster. Ah, good times!_**


	4. The Morning After

_**AN: Thank you ever so for your reviews, messages and for alerting. I really, really appreciate it. I hope I've thanked you all personally. If not, I'll get right on that!  
**_

_**Disclaimer: Not Mine.**_

* * *

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Four: The Morning After**

Barnard Morgan House – Tuesday: 06:45 

Booth ended his call to Brennan, snapped his cell shut and then bicycle-kicked the heavy covers off his body. Then, struggling to his feet, he walked naked on unsteady legs over to the chair in the corner of the room and picked up yesterday's socks. He briefly contemplated searching out a clean pair, but decided he didn't have time, and besides, that would require effort on his part. He slipped on the red and green stripped socks and grabbed a fresh pair of boxers from the bottom of his suitcase. He still hadn't bothered to unpack properly. The only thing he'd made sure to do was kit-out the wardrobe with ironed white shirts and impeccably pressed suits. The rest he'd manage on the fly.

Once dressed, he walked down the hallway to the communal bathroom – relieved to find that it was unoccupied. He made light work of washing up and tried his best to avoid looking at his reflection in the mirror that hung over the small sink. If he looked half as bad as he felt, it wouldn't be a pretty sight. He dumped his toiletries and washcloth back in his room, or '_cell'_, as he'd labelled it, and hurried back down the hallway. Picking up the pace as he descended the stairs, he shut the door to Barnard Morgan House gladly behind him.

Squinting against the still low-lying sun, he half-walked/half-jogged the short distance to Fratelli's Coffee Shop, where he ordered an Americano and a cinnamon and raisin bagel to go. A few minutes later, he spotted the welcome sight of a black taxi cab pulling up outside the restaurant just as an angel, otherwise known as Nina Fratelli, handed him what he now knew would be a world class coffee. Thanking the angel incarnate, he hurried out of the cafe and nabbed the taxi before the driver pulled off in search of another fare.

"Where to, mate?"

Booth pulled from his pant pocket the hastily written note he'd made earlier. "Um, I need to get to the south bank of the River Thames."

"Sorry fella, but I'm gonna need a little more to go on than that."

"Yeah...someplace called "Southwark".

"Well, that's a start." The cab driver pulled away from the curb before reaching towards the dash to start the meter.

"I need to get onto the bank of the river...near Southwark Cathedral. Does that help you?"

"Yeah. I should have you there in twenty minutes or so, depending on traffic."

"Thanks." Booth rested back into the shiny black leather back seat and took a welcome sip of his coffee. His volatile stomach wasn't quite ready for the toasted bagel.

"You a cop?" The man asked a few minutes later.

"What makes you say that?"

"Dunno...just a sixth sense I got."

"I work for the FBI."

"The FBI. Blimey. You're a long way from home."

Booth nodded. He didn't feel up to making chit-chat. But apparently his curious cabbie had other ideas.

"If you're going down onto the river bank, you'll need some boots or sumthin."

"Thanks for the tip."

"I mean it can get pretty muddy down there."

"Gotcha."

"You find a body down there, then?"

"Sorry?"

"You know: a floater. There's plenty of the poor buggers in there. I 'ad a bloke in me cab the other week whose brother jumped off Putney Bridge. He was jacked-up on drugs, of course, but it makes you wonder, don't it?"

"What does it make you wonder?" _Don't encourage the man, idiot!_

"It makes you wonder how many people are down there, floating about...lost."

"Sure, I guess."

Booth looked out of the window at the continuous run of buildings and blur of people as they continued on. Just when he thought the cab driver had tired of questioning him, the other man coughed lightly, clearing his throat. Booth recognised the warning sign and duly braced himself.

"Is it a terrorist then?"

"Who?"

"The dead guy. Or girl. No reason it can't be a woman, right?"

"I can't discuss it, sorry."

"But someone's dead, though?"

"Look, I really can't discuss it. I'm sorry."

"Oh...okay. I understand. But it stands to reason, if you're FBI, then whoever's dead must be a big shot, or a terrorist...or a Yank – no offense."

"None taken. So, how much longer till we get there?"

"Once we clear the bridge – not long."

At that moment, Booth looked up and saw a large concrete superstructure looming in the distance.

"It ain't the prettiest of the bridges, but it's my favourite. And it looks great at night all lit up."

"That's London Bridge, right?"

"Yeah. When we go across, take a look to the right – it's a great view."

Booth did as ordered, and as the taxi boarded the imposing bridge, he looked out across the rushing expanse of dark water that flowed underneath. As he appreciated the view, particularly the mix of architectural styles of buildings that he recognised as the Tower of London, St Paul's Cathedral and the London Eye, his patriotic driver kept up a running commentary.

"You can take a tour of the bridge's walkways; they're nearly fifty feet above our heads. If you think this view is good, you should go up there. Yeah...over to the far right, that's St Pauls...been plenty of famous funerals in there - Churchill, for one...and Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington. And you know Big Ben, right? Course you do. When the light's shinning above the clock face it means Parliament's in session. And it's not called "Big Ben" cause of the clock-tower, but because of the thirteen ton bell hanging inside."

Booth continued to admire the impressive view, not minding the unsolicited audio-tour. In fact, he was just starting to feel like an actual tourist, when they reached the end of the bridge, and then, all too soon, they were pulling to a stop.

"I'm guessing you need to be over there where all the 'plod cars' are?"

Booth didn't have the time or the inclination to query the strange term. He thanked his talkative driver and gave him a generous tip before exiting the vehicle.

"Hey, thanks! Gotta say, you Yanks are the best tippers. Well, you and the Aussies." The driver said out the window of the black cab as Booth stepped onto the pavement.

Heading to the bank of police cars, and what Booth figured were unmarked police vehicles, he made out the tall figure of Rob Jackson leaning against a wall, looking out over the river. As he drew closer, the other man turned and spotted him.

"Morning, Agent Booth. Sorry to call you so early."

"No problem. We're here to shadow you guys, it comes with the territory. So, what have we got?"

"I'll show you. But I have to warn you, it's a bit muddy down there. You mind?"

"Nah...lead the way." _Great. He knew he should have worn the black suit._

Throwing the remainder of his coffee and his untouched bagel into a nearby trashcan, Booth descended the steep aged stone steps, Rob leading. The two men then reached the muddy bank, which at its widest point provided only a few metres of room to manoeuvre. The ground, thankfully, was mostly firm beneath his feet, but he still feared for his suit.

He looked ahead, his eyes forced half closed as he squinted against the strong sunlight, and saw that Brennan was already there. Her 'palace' was considerably closer than his accommodation, and he should have known that she wouldn't wait for him to get there before checking things out.

"Morning, Booth." She said brightly. How could she look so fresh and alert after the consuming the amount of alcohol they'd knocked back the night before? It wasn't fair.

"Bones. How ya feeling this morning?"

"Fine. How are you?"

"Less than fine." He tried unsuccessfully to ignore the impact of her enquiring gaze as she looked him over. As was usual, he felt naked, exposed to her keen eye. Sometimes he wondered if she was looking past skin, flesh and muscle at the arranged collection of bones underneath. Strangely, the thought didn't freak him out like it once used to.

"Did you take two aspirin before going to sleep?" She stepped closer to him, her voice hushed.

"I forgot."

"Tell me that you drank some water, at least?"

"Sure."

"_Booth_." She chastised. Clearly, his usual ability to artfully deceive would elude him today. Not that she was ever particularly susceptible. But there was no way he was going to confess that once he made it back after seeing her to her apartment building, he'd staggered to his room, stripped naked and fallen asleep on top of the covers - waking sometime in the early hours because of his frozen ass and bloodless right arm.

"I have no sympathy for you." She whispered as Harriet approached them, the other woman's purple rubber boots a comical contrast to her dark grey expensive-looking pant suit.

"Agent Booth. Doctor Brennan. Care to take a closer look?"

Booth wanted to decline. But of course, he did no such thing. As they walked towards the light blue crime scene tent, he looked back at the endlessly flowing river, the majestic spectre of Big Ben now almost lost in the hazy distance.

* * *

_**AN: Thanks for reading. :)**_


	5. Lingua Franca

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Five: Lingua Franca**

* * *

South Bank of the River Thames – Tuesday: 07:30 

Booth, Brennan and Rob followed in Harriet's footsteps towards the blue tent. Just as she was about to lead them inside, a man exited and narrowly avoided crashing into her.

"Oh! Sorry, Daniel." Harriet said as she pulled up sharply and saw who she had nearly flattened.

"Eager as always, Harriet?" He teased with a soft hint of a French accent.

"Yeah, yeah. So, how much longer do your people need with the body?"

"A good while, yet. Problem is that we might need to move it sooner than I would like because of the incoming tide."

"How high can it reach along this stretch?"

"According to the Port Authority, approximately seven metres."

Rob, knowing his partner very well, and therefore realising that she wouldn't get around to it anytime soon, made the introductions.

"Doctor Brennan, Special Agent Booth – this is Doctor Daniel Sidibe, our resident forensic pathologist. Doctor Sidibe, our American colleagues will be shadowing us today. I hope that's okay with you?"

A look of excited recognition crossed the pathologist's handsome features. He sidestepped Harriet and shook Booth's hand, then Brennan's.

"Doctor Brennan, it is a great pleasure to meet you. I was just telling one of my colleagues that I am very much looking forward to catching your presentation tomorrow, and now you're here at my crime scene! You know..." The doctor continued in a tumbling rush of words "I am personally familiar with your work at Mourdiah. My family is from there and they still speak of it."

"You are from Koulikoro?"

"Yes."

"It is a beautiful part of the world. I would very much like to go back to Mali one day."

"Yes, one day you must return. But now is perhaps not the safest time."

Brennan nodded. "Sadly, you are correct."

"Are you here to examine the body we found this morning?" The doctor, this time, addressed both Brennan and Booth.

"Our American colleagues are tagging along to get a first-hand look at how we go about things on this side of the Pond." Rob interjected before either Booth or Brennan had a chance to respond. He wanted to make clear that they were not there in any professional capacity, fearful as he was that the normally fiercely territorial doctor wouldn't approve of having his crime scene infiltrated by outsiders. And so the next words out of the other man's mouth took him completely by surprise.

"It would be my honour to show you round. Doctor Brennan, Agent Booth – please, please...after you."

As Brennan and Booth ducked inside the tent, the tall form of Doctor Sidibe following on behind, Rob caught his partner's eye and shrugged. From the look on Harriet's face, she too was startled by the uncharacteristically easygoing demeanour of their forensics expert.

The pathologist guided them over to an area marked out by white tape with the words _"__POLICE__DO__NOT__CROSS__" _written in bold dark blue lettering along its length. The body lay on the muddy ground in the centre and was surrounded by irregularly spaced yellow plastic evidence markers.

"The deceased is still partially clothed and unhelpfully for you, Doctor Brennan, from what we can see at this time, all of the soft tissue remains. Still, any observations you may care to make are most welcome."

"I appreciate your professional courtesy, Doctor Sidibe."

"Bolondio kelen te se ka foi taa."

"Yes. This is true." Brennan agreed, while Booth looked over at her in confusion. When she failed to pick up on his unspoken request for a translation, he leaned in closer to her and asked what the pathologist had said.

"He said that one finger can't pick up anything." She said simply, matching his hushed tone.

Booth had hoped for some kind of follow-up explanation, but Brennan bent down next to the body and immediately became engrossed in conversation with Doctor Sidibe. He kept quiet, allowing them to do their thing. Likewise, Rob and Harriet looked on in silence, the latter Booth noticed, looking decidedly impatient.

As they listed the deceased's obvious (to Booth's eye) and not so-obvious injuries, Brennan effortlessly switched from speaking English to whatever language it was that the other man had spoken a few moments earlier. The pathologist was obviously impressed. Booth got that. Bones was after all an honest-to-god genius. But that didn't give the guy the green light to keep sneaking admiring looks at his partner. Because sooner or later (probably the latter knowing Bones), she would notice. And then where would they be?

A few moments later, Brennan took a breath and looked up at him, a slow, coy smile gradually reaching the corners of her mouth. "It means, used within this context, that two heads are better than one."

Man, he was really in trouble if she was going to start being deliberately obtuse.

"So, what can you tell us?" Harriet asked the pathologist, taking advantage of the pause in their conversation.

"As I told the SOCO before you arrived, it's evident from the remaining clothing and a cursory prelim examination, that the deceased is male, aged between eighteen and thirty years (although, based on the clothing he's wearing and the look of him, I'd estimate age at the latter end of that scale), but radio carbon dating should narrow this down for us. Given that the body appears to have been submerged in water for only a short time, there's a decent chance we'll find some useful trace evidence."

"So, was he killed, take his own life, or did he drop dead of natural causes?" Harriet pressed.

"I think we can rule out natural causes. See here." Doctor Sidibe pointed towards the dead man's exposed neck. "There are clear indications that a ligature was applied – now, whether the man took his own life, or died as a result of an accident, or met his untimely end at the hands of another person is yet to be determined."

"Leaving aside for a moment that a witness saw someone throwing something into the water off the side of a boat earlier this morning...and shortly after, our divers pulled this guy from the drink, do you think it's likely we're dealing with a homicide?"

The pathologist ignored Harriet's follow up question and turned to Brennan. "Do you have to put up with this, too? This constant pressure to deliver instant remedies based on nothing more than guesswork?"

"Yes. Although, I think Agent Booth has improved in that regard. He now understands that I am uncomfortable with conjecture, supposition and other types of unscientific guesswork."

"Thanks, Bones." Booth said sarcastically. He did his best to ignore the smirk that had found its way onto Rob's face.

"Of course, he still _expects_ me to make those types of unscientific pronouncements."

"I tell myself that they can't help it. It makes it easier." Doctor Sidibe smiled, his rich brown eyes roaming the length of Brennan's body as she again turned her attention to the body at their feet.

Brennan may have been oblivious, but Booth wasn't so blind. And so when a few minutes later, the pathologist had told them all he could at that time, he reached out his hand and helped Brennan to her feet. "No point hanging around here then, Bones."

Harriet looked over at the two Americans. If she didn't know better, she'd swear Agent Booth was jealous of the obvious attention being paid to his partner. She was now certain that there was something going on there. Never one to stand in the way of romance, or good sex (because surely Agent Booth was hot heaven between the sheets), she agreed with Rob that she would stay behind to escort the body back to the morgue. There was no need for anyone else to accompany her and Doctor Sidibe.

"We may as well head back to the Nick, then." Rob looked over at Booth and Brennan.

"Who's 'The Nick'?" Brennan asked.

"No...Sorry. The 'Nick' is what we call the Police Station."

Brennan again wondered why it was that people felt the need to clutter their everyday language with slang. All it did, unsurprisingly, was cause confusion. But she kept the thought to herself and followed Booth and Rob out of the tent and into the pale lemony sunlight.

"Agent Booth, Doctor Brennan, there's no reason for you to head back with me straight away. If you want to get some breakfast first, please do."

"You up for some breakfast, Bones?"

"I could eat."

"Can you recommend anywhere?" Booth asked the officer as he again took in the impressive view across the water.

"Sure. Walk with me to the high street, there's a place not far from the station."

"I thought you were based at Scotland Yard?" Brennan asked, stepping aside quickly as two men wearing full-body diving gear crossed their path and hurried down to the water's edge.

"Nah. I was only there for your presentation. Har and I are based at Southwark Police Station, which is about a ten minute walk away. That's why we called you down here – the dead man is on our patch. Lucky us, eh."

**xxx**

Fifteen minutes later, Officer Jackson left his American colleagues at his favourite cafe and walked the remaining couple hundred metres to the police station. As he climbed the stairs which led up to the CID unit, he recalled his partner's words from the previous evening: _"__So,__do__you__think__they__'__re__together?__"_ He had initially rejected the idea, but the more time he spent with them, the more he began to see what Harriet meant. Agent Booth had looked decidedly uneasy at the crime scene as Sidibe tried to cosy-up to Doctor Brennan. And last night at the pub, he'd seen the good doctor sending some less than platonic looks her colleague's way.

And then there was the touching. That wasn't normal. He_never_ touched Harriet. Most of the time, if he was honest with himself, he forgot she was female. Sometimes it occurred to him and he'd open doors for her (sometimes she'd huff at him when he did so and other times she smiled and thanked him – honestly, he'd given up trying to work out why the same action elicited different responses from her) and other times, when questioning a particularly aggressive suspect, he'd position himself slightly in front of her, making sure that if anyone was going to get a smack in the face, it would be him. But that's as far as it went.

Half an hour later, Rob put down his pen and got up from his desk. He needed caffeine, or else he'd never make it through to the end of his shift. Walking across the hall to the small communal kitchen, he picked up the kettle, weighing it in his hand to see if it held enough water, before setting it to boil. He emptied a large teaspoon of instant coffee granules into his beloved "Tottenham Hotspur" mug and added a half teaspoon of white sugar. Reaching towards the fridge for some milk, he glanced out of the large window, down to the street below. As usual, the high street was busy. Cars and vans hurtled up and down the road in steady straight lines, while bikes and motorcycles wove in and out, messing with the symmetry.

He then looked to the right, just in time to see Agent Booth and Doctor Brennan exit the cafe. As the pair stepped down off the step and onto the pavement, he noticed that Agent Booth's hand momentarily came to rest at the doctor's lower back.

No. He didn't touch Harriet like that. Never like _that_.


	6. Gargoyles and Goldschläger

_**AN: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I truly appreciate your feedback...snide comments about my choice of football team aside! :)**_

* * *

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Six: Gargoyles and Goldschläger **

Natural History Museum – Tuesday - 17:30 

Brennan paused to admire the varied collection of terracotta gargoyles that adorned the impressive facade of the Natural History Museum. She liked to imagine that they were standing guard, ready to bust free from their hard clay confines to do battle with anyone intending to harm the much beloved building or its precious collection of evolutionary wonders and truths. She continued to look upwards as she stood there motionless on the stone steps which led to the main entrance and marvelled at the spired towers as they speared arrow-like into the clear blue sky high above her.

This was her fourth visit to the museum and she found that she was just as excited to be there as the first time. She walked up the remaining few steps and entered the building. Passing quickly through the obligatory security check, she retrieved her bag from the end of the rubberised conveyer belt and continued into the imposing Central Hall. She was again struck by the beautiful Romanesque interior and immediately cast her gaze upwards beyond the exposed glass and iron to admire the intricately painted vaulted ceiling. The stencilled panels, which she knew to be reminiscent of the designs found on Minoan pottery, depicted plants and animals, some now long extinct. She reluctantly, after many minutes, lowered her gaze. She was going to be late.

Hurrying across the busy Hall, passing the imposing 105-foot long replica Diplodocus skeleton (which her friend, Professor Woods, had informed her was affectionately known as "Dippy"), Brennan climbed the first run of stairs. Turning right at the creamy white marble statue of Charles Darwin, she continued up the flying staircase to the second floor. The offices were located above the North Hall and she knew that she had to pick up the pace if she had any hope of making it on time. She shouldn't have stopped to look at the ceiling. That was a mistake. A short while later, she reached the guarded entrance to the corridor of offices which belonged to museum staff and visiting academics.

She gave her name to the uniformed female guard and handed over her Jeffersonian ID card. The guard entered a few keystrokes into her computer and politely informed Brennan that the process would take only a moment. As good as her word, a few seconds later, she handed back the ID card and motioned for her to pass through the metal detector. Brennan stepped through the grey rectangular gateway; the high-tech machine clearly at odds with the otherwise aged surroundings. She thanked the guard and hurried on. Finally, close to the end of the long and otherwise deserted corridor, she reached the office of the museum's Director of Science. She knocked once and waited only a heartbeat before the door was flung open by a bearded olive skinned man wearing the thinnest of smiles.

"Yes?" The man ground out the question. His dark eyes drilling into her own in a way that made her feel altogether unwelcome and very uncomfortable.

"I'm here to see Professor Woods. I have an appointment."

"You're Doctor Brennan."

"Yes."

"In that case, _he's_ in there." The man then squeezed past her. She was forced to flatten herself against the doorframe to allow him room. She watched as he stalked down the corridor, reversing her freshly made footsteps. _Weren't British people meant to be polite? _Brennan pondered this as she entered the office, finding no sign of her friend. Remembering that David often spent his time in the small lab attached, she closed the door behind her and walked through the cluttered space and into the equally chaotic laboratory.

"Temperance! You made it."

"David, it's good to see you again. Am I too late?"

"No. I'm still on with the team. Come...come." The grey haired man beckoned her over to where he was sitting, a computer monitor positioned in front of him.

"Erica – she's here!" He nudged the pencil-thin screen to the right and motioned for Brennan to take the seat next to him.

"Doctor Brennan...it's a real pleasure to meet you. I mean see you." Brennan watched as the image of a slim woman with pixie-cut blonde hair moved fully into the frame.

"Doctor Koskinen is heading up the team in Saudi for us, Temperance."

"Doctor Koskinen. It's nice to see you, too. Are you at the dig site now?"

"Yes, we're broadcasting from Rub' al Khali. Comms has been a trial, but today we are lucky." The other woman explained, the distinctive stress on the first syllable in every word signifying to Brennan her likely Finnish origins.

"How are things progressing?"

"Progress is good. I emailed some photographs taken at the site over the past week...do you have them, David?"

"Yes, Erica. They _are_ something!"

Brennan couldn't help but feel envious. As she listened to the Doctor, it quickly became clear that the implications of the work taking place in the Middle Eastern desert would be far-reaching. Being able to examine history firsthand was one of reasons she wanted to be an anthropologist. Knowing that you are seeing things that most people will only read about in text books or see on the news is transformative, and she easily recalled, addictive. Half an hour later, Brennan bid farewell to the increasingly pixelated form of Erica Koskinen and wondered if she could honestly bear to send Ms. Wick to join the dig team in her place.

"So, Temperance?"

"It's certainly an exciting proposition. I am tempted."

"So join us. The whole team would be incredibly grateful to have you there."

"But surely there are people better qualified? I'm not a palaeontologist after all. And there's my work in D.C. to consider. I have commitments there."

"Surely those commitments are longer term. They'll still be there when you return from Saudi."

"That is true."

"It really is an amazing opportunity. I have colleagues and grad students queuing up to go. But I want you. In fact, before you arrived, I had a particularly difficult conversation with one of my brightest students – he wanted to go, of course, but I had to turn down his request."

Brennan remembered the olive-skinned man that opened the door to her earlier and was now able to add context to his sullen, frosty demeanour.

"Look, I don't mean to pressure you...well, okay, perhaps I do, but you and I both realise just how monumental the find could be. We're talking about a transitional fossil showing a point in the evolution of apes from monkeys. It could help us finally make sense of how the shape of 'Catarrhine' skulls changed over time. We might _actually_ be able to cut through the competing hypotheses and reach consensus."

"I believe you are giving me the tough sell. And as I said, I _am_ tempted, but I can't commit to leaving D.C. at this time. Booth and I... The work we do is important. People rely on me, as I rely on them."

David Woods smiled despite his keen disappointment, his white-grey beard tickling his top lip and the underside of his nose. He would have disbelieved the words coming from his friend's mouth if not for the fact that she was sitting mere inches away, the truth of her words evident in her eyes. Her decision not to join the team was of course a resounding blow. Temperance Brennan was the very best and her expertise and unrivalled dedication would be of huge benefit. But mostly he was thrilled for her. It was time she put down some roots. Time she allowed herself to get tangled up in life and in other people.

"I can offer the team one of my brightest interns. Ms. Wick is certainly competent and has requisite field experience."

"Then we'll be very pleased to welcome her." He pushed his metal-framed glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and switched off the computer monitor. Standing, he offered his hand to Brennan.

"Come, let's get out of here. There's a sinfully good Polish restaurant just down the road, and you know how I hate to eat alone."

"Since we last met, I have become vegetarian."

"Really? Do you still shoot?"

"Only at the shooting range. I no longer hunt."

"Well, I'm sure they'll have something to whet your appetite. In any case, they'll have a well-stocked bar. Come on, let's forget work for a moment and catch up properly."

**xxx**

A short time later, Brennan found herself back on the steps leading to the museum entrance. As she waited for her friend to finish his conversation with an eager student who had run into them just as they made it outside, she again considered the buildings' cathedral-like structure. The buff and cobalt-blue terracotta exterior she knew had provided hardy resistance to the corrosive smog commonplace in Victorian London. That the buildings' outer shell was also beautiful was a wonderful bonus. The relief carvings of plants and animals placed there by the museum's designer to represent biological diversity loomed high above her, blanketing all below them their variously shaped shadows. She shivered - a mostly automatic reaction to the momentary loss of the warming glow of sunshine.

"Sorry about that. Mr Kennedy is one of my erm...most dedicated students." David said as he re-joined her halfway down the steps.

"I understand. There's no need to apologise."

"So, do you miss teaching?" He asked, swinging his tan leather satchel over his shoulder as they walked the rest of the way down the steps and then towards the tall gates that marked the Cromwell Road entrance.

"I still teach, but now most of my time is spent in the lab or out in the field."

"Speaking of being 'out in the field', how's that FBI man of yours?"

"He's not 'my man', David."

"I meant it only in the loosest sense, of course."

"Booth is fine."

"Good. You know we've never been formally introduced. What say you two come for dinner at my place later this week?"

"I'll ask him, but I would enjoy that."

"And Booth, is it his sort of thing...hanging out with a fussy old professor?"

"Booth is a people person. He gets on with everyone."

"Why does that feel like a slight on my personality?"

"I didn't intend it to be. I just mean to say that..."

"Relax, Temperance. I'm just having fun with you." David looked over at her, a genuine smile igniting a twinkle in his clear blue eyes. He didn't see enough of this woman. He needed to right that wrong.

"Okay, so we go left here." He threaded his arm through hers and when he felt her tense up, he held on. As he had hoped, a breath later, she relaxed and he tugged her along as they weaved in and out of people - who like them, were all competing for space on the busy pavement.

A few minutes later, they arrived at "Gessler at Daquise". David held open the door and Brennan ducked inside, glad to escape the busy street. Shrugging off her light jacket, she immediately registered the myriad smells which drifted all about her and which instantly caused her stomach to tighten in anticipation. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast and she suddenly realised that she was in fact, famished. She and Booth had been promised lunch by Harriet and Rob but then the four of them had got caught up in the initial flurry of activity which she now understood typically announced the start of an investigation. It was Booth who had eventually pointed out that she needed to get going, or else risk missing her appointment with David.

They were greeted at the entranceway by a smiling, smartly-dressed man who took their coats and showed them to a table towards the rear of the cosy restaurant. Brennan appreciated the slightly austere decor – the distressed plaster-style walls and the dark wooden cabinets which contrasted with the plain white tiles and soft lighting. She instantly liked the place - it was simply elegant, unfussy and very welcoming. And the delicious smells wafting all around added to her happy mood. She could discern the familiar fragrance of fried onions, bread, beetroot and vinegar but they were vying for prominence among others which were entirely unknown to her.

"So, first things first...what are we drinking?"

Brennan perused the menu until she found the drinks options, which were plentiful. "Perhaps we should keep it simple, authentic." She suggested as she relayed the extensive list of vodkas.

"Yes, yes. Good call. While in Poland, eh."

Three shots each of good vodka later, David settled his knife and fork on his empty plate and rested back in the wooden high-backed chair. Brennan, a short time later, mirrored his actions. The pair now suitably full and teetering on the verge of being tipsy continued to talk animatedly about the Saudi expedition and about Brennan's work back in D.C.

"Okay, I vote we bid adieu to the vodka and finish up this fine meal with a schnapps...something to complement the apple tart that I simply must have - full stomach and scary cholesterol count be damned."

Brennan nodded her agreement but when their assiduously attentive waiter returned to take their order, she passed on dessert. She simply hadn't room. Booth would've had pie. Just like her friend, he would have made room, unable to resist the lure of a sweet finish to his meal. She did however join David when he ordered a shot of Goldschläger. At first, her taste buds weren't sure how to process the strong cinnamon flavour and the unmistakably alcoholic kick. But as the liquid slid down her throat, her taste buds made their mind up and relished the warming sweetly spiced bite which came at the end.

"Yum." David sighed contentedly as he placed his empty glass on the table. "Back to that partner of yours, Temperance."

"What about him?"

"Is he still single?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Now, I was thinking..."

"But I thought you were in a relationship, David? Also, to the best of my knowledge, Booth isn't interested in men."

"I'm talking about for you, of course."

"Booth and I are just partners."

"So there's no potential for anything more?"

"We're friends. And there's a sexual attraction, certainly...but our work comes first, and besides, I'm not looking for a relationship."

"So he is. Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes. Booth considers being in a committed monogamous relationship to be important. I would say that it's a priority for him."

"Relationships, committed ones at that _can_ be rewarding."

"I understand that this is true for some people."

"But not for you?"

"No."

"Do you think he wants to be in a committed relationship with you?"

"Booth understands my position - and so, no. Besides, I don't think I'm his type."

"Ridiculous. You, my dear, are stunning."

"I have no doubt that Booth is sexually attracted to me. I meant that we are not suited in other ways."

"Such as?"

"There are marked intellectual and financial differences."

"And?"

"We differ in our religious beliefs, in that I have none. Booth on the other hand is Catholic and goes to church every Sunday, when he can."

"And?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"No. The differences you mention will add flavour to a relationship, sure, but they aren't showstoppers."

"David, we work for the FBI. We can't be together, even if we wanted to."

"Where there's a will there's a way."

"I don't think the idiom is appropriate in our case."

"You know I don't mean to meddle or pry. Well actually, I do mean to pry...it's just that we've known each other for many years now, and I want you to be happy."

"I am happy."

"I mean as happy as you can possibly be."

"David...I..."

He heard the key change in her tone and knew he needed to back off. As always in these situations, he'd pushed too far. It was just that she'd changed so much since she started working at the Jeffersonian and helping out the FBI. And that Booth bloke was part of the reason why, _he just knew it_. She was less guarded, quicker to laugh, but more importantly she had learned to trust again. He knew about her parents and her brother, and once she had mentioned spending time in the foster care system. Of course, when he tried to find out more, she brushed aside his questions and changed the subject. Now that he thought about it, he realised with dismay that that conversation had taken place almost a decade earlier.

"Okay, I'll shut up now...promise. I'm sorry for droaning on. Let's blame it on the Goldschläger, shall we?"

Thankfully, Brennan smiled and he knew he was forgiven.

* * *

_**AN: The NHM in London is one of my most favourite places to be. I try to visit at least once every couple of years. Now, even though I can describe the look of the building, I was certainly not familiar with the materials used in its construction - for that, I referenced the museum's website - sorry, can't work out how to add a link here.  
**_

_**The Polish restaurant mentioned in this chapter is real. The food is delicious and the decor is hopefully as I've described. **_

_**The dig site in the Saudi Arabian desert is a product of my imagination. However, the fossil find is real. The partial skull and teeth were discovered in western Saudi Arabia, somewhere near the Red Sea. More info available from the Guardian Newspaper website - search "**__**fossil-skull-saadanius".**_

_**And to round off: I've never tried "Goldschläger". I'm not a fan of schnapps of any variety. *shudders* **_

_**Thanks for reading.**_


	7. Cross Words

_**AN: Sorry I've been MIA. Hopefully, I've responded to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, or who whizzed me a PM about it. I've some chapters in the bag this time round and so I'll do my best to keep posting until the end. **_

_**For those of you out there in the big wide world still interested in this little story - here's the next installment.**_

* * *

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Seven: Cross Words**

New Scotland Yard – Wednesday: 11:30 

Brennan breathed a shallow, discreet sigh of relief and retook her seat next to Booth. The second of their planned run of three presentations appeared to have gone over as well as their first. Only half-listening to the closing speech given by the Commissioner, she looked out over the heads of their audience to the large rectangular window ahead. Rain pelted the reinforced bullet-proof glass; she was dismayed to see that the miserable weather that had greeted her that morning hadn't abated - the abrupt decrease in temperature and the storm-cloudy sky added to her already dark mood.

She had woken after an erratic night's sleep and as soon as her tired eyes adjusted to the shadowy cold bluish light of her bedroom she felt a sense of weariness take root inside. She'd initially attributed her uncharacteristic malaise to the vodka shots she had David had consumed the evening before, but a hearty breakfast and a strong mug of black coffee later she had to concede that she wasn't hung over, not even close. She fastened her brightly-coloured silken robe around her and went to collect the thick bundle of newspapers from outside her apartment door. Aware of the sound made by the soles of her slippers scuffing across the travertine tiles as she made her way back to the large well-appointed kitchen, she made a conscious effort to pick up her feet. She poured another mug of coffee and took a seat at the glass dining table. As she had the morning before she started with the American newspapers. After scanning their contents, she turned to the British broadsheets. The international news was much the same, and as was the case back home, the pages were mostly dominated by political issues and the odd public interest story. As she turned the final page before reaching the sports section (which she always ignored and always resented - how were the results of a sports game a truly legitimate form of news?), an article towards the foot of the page caught her attention.

"_Body found in Thames. Police confirm it could be missing Army Officer."_

She wondered if Rob or Harriet had provided the confirmation mentioned in the article, as certainly the body discovered in the river was the body she and Booth had seen the day before. She read on.

"_Police divers recovered the body from a stretch of the River Thames close to Southwark Cathedral early yesterday morning. Police confirmed that the body was that of a man aged between eighteen and thirty years and indicated that it could be the missing army officer Matthew Trent. Mr Trent, 26, of Graveney, Kent, is a Sandhurst graduate and recently completed a second tour of duty in Afghanistan. The officer has been missing since the 22__nd__ of March."_

Brennan wondered what a "Sandhurst graduate" was – likely it was a military training academy, perhaps similar to West Point. She also wondered why this man's disappearance, among surely many others, had made the news. Taking a warming sip of her coffee, she leafed through the other British newspapers to see if the story was featured. It wasn't.

Half an hour later, and after completing "The Times" crossword in her head (and silently admonishing the paper's editor for failing to spot the obvious error at "twelve across"), she knew she couldn't stall any longer. She rinsed her mug and left it to drain on the rack and walked back to her bedroom to get dressed.

xxx

"We're on a roll, partner." Booth said as they walked across the conference room, towards the exit.

"Hmm... Yes. That went well, I think."

"You okay, Bones?" Booth asked as he reached forward and shoved one of the heavy double-doors open. Flattening himself against the wood, she strode past him. They never could seem to work out how to navigate doorways together. Usually, they both rushed forward, equally intent on being the first one through. Or, as was the case here, Brennan barged her way through and Booth did his best to get out of the way.

"Yes. I'm fine, Booth."

Walking through into the anteroom, they joined the queue of people waiting to be served lacklustre coffee.

"It's just...you look a little pale."

"I didn't get much sleep last night."

"I see. Burning the midnight oil, huh?"

"I don't know what that means."

"It means that you had a good time last night. That maybe you drank too much and got home a little late." He smiled. He'd figured it out, this mood of hers. Bones was hung-over. Bones! After her lecture the other morning when he'd shown up to the crime scene the worse for wear this was a gift. And there was no way he was going to let her off the hook.

Brennan found that his knowing, cocky smile had the opposite effect on her today. Usually it made her stomach churn in a not unpleasant way, but today...today, his smugness rankled.

"David and I spent an enjoyable evening discussing his work in Saudi Arabia."

"So what time did you get home?"

"Why?"

"I'm just trying to work out how_ good_ a time you had." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and slapped on one of his patented smiles.

"Come on. We're holding up the line." Brennan said as she walked a few paces forward.

"So, this David guy...he's old, right?"

"He's fifty five, I think. Why should you be interested in his age?"

"I'm just making conversation."

"Not _good _conversation."

He ignored the uncharacteristic jibe and the prissy edge to her tone. He wanted to break her out of her funk, because honestly, she looked plain miserable. Besides, they had some free time that evening and he planned on having a night out on the town with his partner. A night that would be no fun at all if she was still moping over who knew what.

"I'm just happy to know that you had a good time."

"I don't see why that should that make you happy?"

"Because I'm your partner and your happiness matters to me."

"I sense you're making fun of me?"

"I'm not making fun _of you_, Bones. I'm just having a little fun _with you_."

"The distinction is lost on me. But I see. You think I'm hung-over, and you wanted to remind me that I chastised you for the same thing the other day."

"I was working towards something like that, yeah."

"Let me save you the trouble. I am not suffering the effects of alcohol abuse."

"Then what's the deal?"

"There is no 'deal'. I'm tired, that's all."

"But we're still on for tonight, right?" When she failed to answer, he asked again. She nodded her agreement and the relief that tracked a warm path from the pit of his stomach up into his chest genuinely took him by surprise.

He didn't want to think that maybe something had happened between Bones and that professor guy. But what else could account for her mood? He tried to remember the last time she had mentioned the other man. It was maybe two years before. Booth had dropped by her office to pick up a report on a murder victim discovered in a public park in Bethesda and she had been on a videoconference call to London. He'd asked if she wanted him to leave, in case her conversation was private, but she beckoned him in. So he had sat on the sofa in her office and flipped through the case file, half-listening to the transatlantic conversation. There had been no hint of a relationship between the two of them that spoke of more than colleagues and friends. And besides, the other man was considerably older than Brennan, and he'd imagined that their relationship had at some stage been that of student and teacher. Not that this precluded a romantic relationship. That creep Michael Stires evidence that Bones wasn't averse to sleeping with her teacher. But he hadn't picked up that kind of vibe.

_So what was bugging her? And why wouldn't she tell him? _

Finally, they reached the end of the queue and helped themselves to coffee. Taking a sip only, they then turned and prepared themselves for another meet and greet with London's Finest.

Over the next hour, he snuck occasional sidelong glances at his partner. Outwardly, and to those not conversant in "Bones", she appeared relaxed and comfortable. But he knew better. And so consequently he wasn't at his best. He gave one line answers to some of the varied questions asked of him by police officers and civilian staff who seemed to him to drift past on a conveyer belt of blurred black and white, and at other times he shut conversations down before their time. Yes, it was unprofessional, and yes, he felt like a jerk. But for some reason he couldn't ignore the niggling, insidious feeling that sought his whole attention - a feeling which made put him on edge, on alert and most frustratingly of all, on the back foot.

Bones was angry, upset, or maybe a mixture of both. She was fine when she left to meet the guy yesterday afternoon, and now she wasn't. It didn't take a squint to join the dots. Before he had the chance to question her again, the pompous guy from the crime scene appeared out of nowhere.

"Doctor Brennan, Agent Booth – I wanted to thank you for your extremely interesting presentation."

"Thank you, Doctor Sidibe." Brennan replied as she returned the other man's effusive handshake.

"Truthfully, I can't recall a presentation I've enjoyed more. Your discussion of bullet wound analysis and cranial reconstruction techniques are quite revelatory. And your speech, Agent Booth...again...interesting."

Booth thanked him and returned his broad smile. But as was the case with the other man, his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"If you don't have plans this evening, I would be honoured if you would join me for dinner. I would very much enjoy the opportunity to continue my education, Doctor Brennan."

"I'm afraid I do have plans tonight. Booth and I are going to do some sightseeing."

"Of course. Sorry, I perhaps didn't make myself clear...Agent Booth...my invitation was to you both."

_Yeah, right it was, buddy._

"Perhaps we could arrange dinner for another evening, Doctor Sidibe."

"I'll hold you to that, Doctor Brennan, mark my words."

Booth's smile levelled out at that point. In contrast, the coroners' toothy smile broadened at the thought of spending the evening with his partner.

"Anyway, now I have secured a date with you, Doctor Brennan, I must take my leave."

Booth expected her to correct Sidibe on his erroneous assumption, but perhaps the doctor's intended double meaning simply passed her by. On the other hand, he was fully attuned to the other man's intentions. And it had also not escaped his attention that this time the invitation wasn't extended to him. But hey, Bones was a free agent. She could eat dinner with whomever she chose.

And tonight she had chosen him.

He'd figured they'd maybe take a ride on the London Eye and then grab a bite to eat somewhere along that stretch of the river, but now he realised he needed to do better. He needed to up his game. Suddenly it was important that he show her that a night out with him wouldn't always equate to chucking down burgers at the Diner and going for take-out at Wong Foos. He could be charming - devastatingly so with the right motivation. He could do romance. He could be what she was looking for.

But was she looking?


	8. The Crab in the Ointment

**_AN: Thanks to MiseryMaker for keeping me motivated and for the read through. Those not reading her fine words might wanna look her up. You won't regret it._  
**

* * *

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Eight: The Crab in the Ointment**

* * *

Guys Hospital, Great Maze Road, South London

It was difficult to be charming when trying to block out the smell of death and the constant jabbering of squints. The accent might be different, Booth considered as he tried to keep up with the discussion that was happening right in front of him, but a squint was a squint was a squint. Besides which, the basement-level morgue was sweltering – something to do with, according to Harriet, ancient plumbing and a fear of turning off the heat only to pay dearly when in winter it failed to fire up again. So, the oppressive heat, the unsettling stench and the nerd-speak all served to put a severe dampener on his previously good mood.

And he never got to take Bones out to dinner.

xxxxx

Brennan leaned in closer as Doctor Sidibe extracted a small light brown object from the nasal cavity of the dead man they had discovered on the banks of the river - the dead man who had now officially been identified as "Matthew Trent".

The object was circular in shape and her first thought was that it was a coin, perhaps a penny. But then the penny moved.

"What _is _that?" She asked, moving round the autopsy table so that she could stand shoulder to shoulder with the coroner.

"An insect or maybe a crustacean of some description...wait...it's moving again." The doctor held the object under the backlit microscope and took a quick glance at the magnified image before moving an inch or so to the side to allow Brennan room to look also.

"It's a crab!" She looked up and sought out Booth before bending down again for a second look.

"We're going to need to send it over to Jane." Doctor Sidibe said to Harriet, who nodded and then hit speed dial on her phone.

"Crap. It's gone to answer phone. It'll have to wait until the morning." Harriet left a short message for the entomologist they had on retainer from the Natural History Museum, and then hung up with a sigh. "I guess it _is_ getting late."

"And not everyone is as mental as you are when it comes to work."

Harriet shot Rob a withering look and then resumed her list of questions of the coroner.

xxxxx

This is how Booth and Brennan had found them.

Rob had called Booth, who was just tying up his shoes and thinking about nothing else but not being late to pick up Bones, with news that the body had been taken to the morgue at Guys Hospital and that Doctor Sidibe had "found something interesting".

Booth had suppressed the urge to tell him that solving a Limey murder was the very last thing on his mind at that moment. And besides, he sensed that Rob hadn't wanted to disturb him on his own time. The other man had given him the news begrudgingly, apologetically, and with much prompting from Harriet, who Booth could hear clearly in the background.

"I'll let Doctor Brennan know. No. No. Really, it's not a problem."

"Well if you're sure. I can always tell the Inspector that I couldn't reach you...honestly; this conversation needn't have taken place."

Booth's cell vibrated in his hand registering that someone else was trying to reach him. He told Rob that they would be at the hospital within the hour.

"Bones."

"Booth, we need to get to Guy's Hospital. It appears that..."

"I know. I just got a call from Rob. How come you know about it?"

"David called me."

"Who?" Booth asked as he got up from the edge of the bed and grabbed his wallet from the inside pocket of the suit jacket he'd left hanging over a chair.

"Doctor Sidibe."

"So now Doctor Death has your phone number?" That pulled him up short. Why did she have to go and give him her phone number?

"Yes. We swapped numbers earlier today. He really is a most interesting man."

"Yeah, he's aces. So, do you want me to grab a cab and swing by to collect you, or am I meeting you there?"

"I'll meet you there. I need to get changed first."

"Bones, we're going to a morgue to look at a dead person – no need to get all dressed up for that."

"No, it's not that. I'm a little overdressed."

Suddenly all he could think about was what she was wearing. She had dressed up for him. Well, maybe that overstretching it. But still, she was dressed up. He could picture her in that black dress that swayed just above her knees – the one that made his chest ache, or perhaps the dark green dress – the dress that had presented him with a dilemma. He'd been brought up knowing that it was rude to stare, but that particular dress wasn't playing fair. It was a little low cut, snug in all the right places and sexy as hell. She'd worn it once to his knowledge. It was on the night of Angela's birthday party, and she had swept into the Founding Fathers and literally stolen his breath. He didn't know where to look – well, okay, he did...but he didn't, couldn't, not if he wanted to be able to look his partner in the eye ever again.

"So, I'll meet you there? Booth?"

"Yeah. Sorry, I um...yeah. I'll see you there."

xxxxx

If Brennan had to sum up her partner's mood, she would plump for hostile. Also, the brooding looks he kept sending everyone's way coupled with the fact that the form-fitting charcoal grey shirt he was wearing pinched just a little on his biceps, all made concentration extremely difficult. And he smelled so good. Despite the myriad chemical odours present, which usually had the effect of stripping your nose of sensation or over stimulating your sense of smell, she could clearly discern his scent. He was wearing cologne. Booth rarely wore cologne.

She thankfully found her voice.

"I can take a picture on my cell of the crab and send it to my entomologist in D.C."

Doctor Sidibe moved aside, first asking Harriet if it was okay for the photo to be taken.

"Okay, I've got it. It shouldn't take too long for Doctor Hodgins to identify the species."

"Well, in the meantime let's get back to our discussion, shall we?"

Brennan nodded and resumed her examination of the x-rays of Matthew Trent's right thigh. She quickly confirmed the assistant coroner's finding that the femoral shaft was fractured just below the lesser trochanter. The assistant coroner for his part did his best to look unfazed by her presence. He found his boss intimidating on his best, most confident of days, but that was nothing to the pressure he felt knowing that a world-renowned forensic anthropologist was reading over his case notes.

"So the injury to the femoral shaft wasn't documented in the medical notes sent over by the military academy?"

"No. The notes record nothing more serious than heatstroke, a bout of food poisoning and two broken fingers. All the aforementioned occurred whilst the deceased was on active duty, Doctor Brennan."

"I see. And what is your assessment of how recently the fracture occurred, Doctor Garrity?"

The prematurely-balding, too-skinny assistant coroner took a deep breath. It was vitally important that he got this right; he sensed that his boss was similarly invested in his determined effort to not make a tit of himself. He was, after all, the assistant coroner for the district and cocking up a relatively straightforward diagnosis such as this reflected well on no one.

"The subtrochanteric fracture appears to have been closed, as there is no sign of scarring on the skin. The x-rays show what now appears to be a very short oblique fracture with no comminution. It's not easy to determine if the fracture has healed over time and now shows this relatively minor damage or whether the injury is more recent. A CT Scan would assist." Adam Garrity sensed that she was about to cut in and so continued on, keen as he was to try and impress.

"However, the x-ray does show callus on the bone – here, and here." He was pleased to note that she was nodding her agreement. Healing bone callus can show up on x-ray within six weeks in adults. Given that the deceased's roommate gave a witness statement confirming that he last saw him five days before his death, and made no mention of the other man injuring himself recently, and as his most recent medical record attests, he was fit, healthy and mobile, I would assume that the fracture occurred between three to eighteen months ago."

"Have you ascertained if the callus on the x-ray is woven bone or lamellar bone?"

"I assumed lamellar given the fact that his medical records and witness statements don't mention an injury of this nature."

"Did the deceased smoke?" Brennan flipped through the x-rays until she found one showing magnified sections showed the bone growths.

"No."

"This would have helped in the healing process. Of course you'll need to carry out further analysis but I think the fracture occurred as recently as three to six months ago. The strength of the healing bone typically is eighty per cent of normal as early as three months after an injury. He could have sustained the injury during his last tour of duty and by the time he returned home nobody would have guessed what had happened."

"But what about his medical records? The last check-up he had was just shy of seven weeks ago. The army doctor doesn't report that he was suffering from an injury of this type."

"Did the doctor take x-rays?"

"Well, no. But surely at the time of the injury, he would have been in immense pain. So much pain that he would have sought medical attention."

"I agree. The fracture is as you say relatively minor, but nonetheless, it would have been painful and required sufficient time to heal. Also, a fracture of this type is usually the result of a sharp angled blow to the bone, so not a common injury - especially as no other bones appear to have been broken, indicating that the deceased was in a car crash, for example."

"So the army doctor lied?"

"I couldn't say."

"But that's what this adds up to, doesn't it?"

"I don't deal in conjecture, Doctor Garrity."

The assistant coroner inferred from her blunt response that he ought just to concentrate on the science and leave the rest to the police. He looked to his boss to see if the other man had been paying attention – after all, he'd done well, hadn't he? Unfortunately, his usually attentive boss was busy checking out Doctor Brennan. He stifled a grin. Sidibe was doing a piss-poor job of being subtle about it. He was practically drooling over her. Not that Adam could blame him, the woman_ was_ a knockout.

He took the x-rays from her and got on with the business of cataloguing the other anomalies present on Matthew Trent's body.

A few minutes later... 

"So, are we about done here, people?"

She couldn't explain why, but just the sound of Booth's voice made her stomach tighten. Her legs felt hollow, weak – mimicking the sensation she sometimes experienced when she drank a glass of wine too fast. Of course, hearing his voice made her think about how desirable he looked tonight. If she was being entirely honest with herself, she had dressed for their dinner conscious that she was thinking of their date as a real date - a romantic date, not just dinner with a friend. She had slipped on her favourite dress. The dark green silky material slid over her warm, freshly-showered skin and she had foolishly closed her eyes and imagined Booth's hands tracing all the places the material touched.

Brennan looked up to find Booth staring at her. She expected him to look away, as he always did...seconds ticked by...voices echoed around the cavernous morgue...the ancient plumbing groaned and clattered...he would look away any moment now...she would look away...

The word _"temptation"_ rolled round in her mind until it found its way onto the tip of her tongue. She could taste the initial sweetness of its promise. But then the promise quickly became burdensome - predictably, a chance not taken. She wanted to kiss him so badly that she imagined herself closing the distance between them - imagined taking his hand in hers and then sliding her other hand around the back of his neck and drawing his mouth to hers. Maybe that single taste, that sole concession would be enough?

Her whole body thrummed with energy, and her focus had narrowed to encompass his scent, his warm brown eyes and the suggestion of a smile that played invitingly at the corner of his lips. She silently begged him to look away because she didn't have the strength.

_Temptation..._

"Doctor Brennan. Doctor Brennan? I think that's your mobile ringing." Adam Garrity prompted.

"Bones."

"Yes."

"Aren't you going to get that?"

"Wha...oh, yes. Yes. Sorry." She reached inside the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cell phone. What _had _she been thinking?

"Ello, ello, Doctor B. How's London Town treating you guys?"

"Hodgins?"

"The one and only. So, I ran the image you sent me."

"And?" Her face was burning, she knew it. She hoped everyone would put it down to the temperature of the humid basement room.

"What you have there is Eriocheir Sinensis – otherwise known as the Chinese Mitten Crab or the Big Sluice Crab. It's native to..."

She interrupted him only to advise that she was going to put him on loudspeaker.

"Go ahead, Doctor Hodgins." She said holding out her phone. "We're all listening."

"The crab is native to coastal estuaries of eastern Asia but in recent years it was introduced to Europe and North America where it's considered an invasive species. They mostly inhabit fresh water sources but they return to the sea to breed. The one you have there is a juvenile. And this would fit given the time of year and where you found it - the females return to brackish water in the spring to hatch their eggs."

"So it's a common type of crab. It's not something that shouldn't have been down there with him?" Booth said, raising his voice in the way most people do when conversing over loudspeaker.

"Hey, Booth! So, Doctor B didn't update me – how are you guys enjoying London? You know, you should check out the Australia Landscape exhibit at Kew Gardens while you're there. A buddy of mine went and said it was pretty awesome."

"Plants and flowers...really?"

"Flowers are plants." Brennan interjected, unable to help herself. Booth shot her a pleading look as he set about trying to get their curly haired scientist back on point.

"Were you aware that one in five of the world's plants are threatened with extinction, Booth?"

"And this is relevant to the case, how?

"It's relevant in a bigger picture kind of way."

"Well, what say we narrow our perspective for a minute and you tell me how this crab can help us out?"

"I get it. No time for small talk. Right...so these crabs are burrowers. They often create problems when digging around embankments and they can clog drainage systems. I guess what I'm saying is that it will only be useful to you if it ingested something that can tie your victim to a particular location."

"Are they common to the Thames?" Harriet asked, before going on to introduce herself.

"They've been known to migrate inland. A Google search pinged up an article in one of your newspapers - the London Standard...no, that wasn't it."

"The London Evening Standard?" Harriet supplied as she scribbled down a note in her black pocketbook.

"That's the one. The article was from the mid-nineties but apparently this species of crab was seen coming out of the river and moving towards the main street."

"Main street?" Rob whispered to Harriet.

"He must mean "high street"."

Rob shrugged, her explanation seemed to fit.

"You know, you can buy these crabs on the subway in China. For between a dollar fifty and seven bucks you can buy a perfectly chilled crab and even pick up a bottle of crab vinegar to go with it."

Booth coughed. Hodgins acknowledged the usual cue and quickly moved onto another thought. 

Half an hour later: 10:00pm

Brennan and Booth said goodnight to Harriet and Rob and quickly turned their backs against the fierce, cold wind and walked in the opposite direction down St Thomas Street towards Borough High Street. The bright lights of the newly-renovated New City Court entrance of Guys Hospital shone beaconlike into the night sky behind them.

"So." Booth finally managed.

"Yes?" She pulled her white raincoat tighter in at the waist in an effort to warm herself as bitter blasts of air now seemed to attack from every angle.

"We could still use the subway instead of waiting for a cab, if you wanted?"

"They call it the "Tube" here, Booth."

"Okay, do you want to catch the Tube?"

"I'd rather look for a taxi, if that's okay?" It was foolish, of course it was, but she didn't want to travel by train back to her apartment because this would mean that Booth would leave her as soon as they made into the welcoming warmth of London Bridge Station – his accommodation was located in a different direction.

"Sure. We can do that." He snuck a look at her and smiled. The cold had turned the tip of her nose and her cheeks a soft shade of pink. He barely resisted the urge to throw his arm around her shoulder and pull her closer. He could do just that of course, and tell her it was a way of keeping them both warm, but she wouldn't buy it. Hey, he didn't buy it.

"Are you hungry?" He asked hopefully as he stuffed his frozen hands into the pockets of his black sportcoat. He should've gotten changed when Rob called - he was overdressed for a night at the morgue. And what was he thinking with the cologne?

"I could eat."

"Me too. Maybe we can still salvage something of this evening - let's see what's open, shall we?"

"Okay." She fought to keep a telling smile from her lips.

They picked up the pace and almost walked the length of the still-busy street before finding a Lebanese restaurant which tempted them in by smell alone. The rich, savoury fragrances had hit them square in the stomach as they approached. Booth held open the glass door for her and this time she thanked him as she walked by.

They gratefully left the cold behind.

* * *

**_AN: Okay, so I realised the other day that I've only gone and named two people "David" in this story (wonder why?). I was going to go back and fix this but then reasoned that in real life sometimes we know people with the same name. Also, I'm lazy._**

**_Hope you liked this chapter. If you have the time and inclination, I'd be interested to know your thoughts. :)_**


	9. The Bridge of Sighs

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Nine: The Bridge of Sighs**

* * *

The restaurant was busy, but not claustrophobically so. They were seated almost immediately. Brennan shimmied round to the brown suede padded bench seat and Booth sat opposite on the matching hard-backed chair. A few moments later, a waiter took their drinks order and they busied themselves reading through the menu.

"This trip is going by so quick." She mused, while smoothing a burnt-orange napkin across her lap with one hand as the other held onto the tall rectangular menu.

"I know. I feel like we just got here, and now we're onto our last presentation, and then in a few days we're headed back to D.C."

"I've decided not to alter my presentation. It appears to have gone over well so far." She looked up, as though seeking his assurance that this was the correct course of action.

"Are you kidding me? Best-selling author and brilliant crime-fighting anthropologist comes to town...you've had those guys eating out the palm of your hand."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Booth."

"Hey, I would."

He liked that she blushed a little at his compliment. He liked that his words, which were true, of course, had that effect on her.

"I was wondering if tomorrow evening you wanted to come with me to my friend David's house...he's invited me...well us, to dinner."

"Sure."

"You don't want to think about it?"

"Why would I?"

He smiled as she again busied herself with the contents of the menu. He'd browsed the list already, and knew it wasn't that interesting. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was asking him out.

"I think you'll like David. He is a most interesting man."

"If you like him, I'll like him."

"I don't understand the causal relationship between my..."

"You have good taste." He cut in.

Brennan shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Booth was looking at her funny...examining her in some way. And for some reason, the table they were seated at seemed to shrink until she felt as though he was mere inches away. She shifted again – the brushed suede seat making the backs of her legs too warm. And the heating in the restaurant was on way too high. When the waiter came she'd point this out.

"We're ordering wine, right?"

"Yes." She agreed, although perhaps alcohol wasn't the wisest option.

"So what are your early thoughts concerning Trent?"

The quick switch in conversation, coupled with the ridiculously sexy cologne he was wearing, which had served to distract her all night, had her playing catch-up. "...Well the physical evidence points to suicide."

He watched as the truth of her words moulded her unhappy expression. "But that doesn't explain how he ended up in the river."

"Right. It's most perplexing."

"Really? I think it's simple...either someone put him in there to try and hide the fact that he took his own life, or they put him in there to cover up a crime, or perhaps to hide their part in his death."

"I don't see how those two options are different in any significant way."

"It all comes down to motive – Trent's, and the mystery person who dumped him in the river. Maybe someone put him there to try and hide that he committed suicide – maybe to protect him from the shame...or to protect his family from the sadness of knowing that he deliberately chose his death. Or, maybe he was forced to take his own life, maybe was driven to it in some way, and the person who led him down that path wanted to cover their tracks."

"But we agree that it's not a homicide."

"Maybe not the textbook definition."

"Surely that's the only definition."

He was about to argue the point when their waiter arrived to take their order.

xxx

Half an hour later, Brennan placed her fork down on her empty plate and picked the napkin from her lap and laid it at the side of the large oval dish. She had eaten and drunk far too much. Her jeans were pinching her waist, and the room had begun to sway back and forth in a mostly pleasant, dreamy way. Booth, on the other hand, looked unfazed by the bottle of wine he had drunk all to himself and was busy perusing the dessert menu.

"So you're saying that long ago people used to bury their dead down on the riverbank?"

"There's evidence of human habitation living off the river dating back to Neolithic times. The British Museum houses artefacts taken from along the length of the River Thames - ooh, we should go if we have time before we head back to D.C."

Booth nodded, but despite her obvious excitement, inside he was dying. Looking at old pots and cutlery was definitely not on his agenda, but if it made Bones happy, then he was happy. Besides, maybe they could grab a bite to eat after. He was just running through possible dining options...all of which involved Brennan wearing that black dress he loved, when he realised she was asking him a question.

"So, are you ordering dessert?"

"Nah. I'm full...you?" He drained the last of his red wine.

"I couldn't eat another thing."

"Check?"

"Yes."

Booth caught the trained eye of their waiter and gave the universally understood nod of the head. Less than a minute later, a slip of white paper, along with a few small white balls that he took to be mints, was presented to him on a silver dish.

"I'll pay, Booth." Brennan said reaching down under the table for her purse.

"This is on me. You can pay next time we go out for dinner."

"Okay." She retrieved her purse and placed it next to her. It was then that the implications of his words sunk in.

"So, tomorrow night, what time are we expected?" Booth sorted through his wallet until he found the notes he was looking for. British money was huge and colourful. Like always, other people's currency looked odd, fake in some way.

"Um...if we get there at eight, that should be fine." Her words felt thick against her tongue and she realised that she was more drunk than sober.

"Great." He placed the money down on the sliver dish and picked up two of the mints. "You want one?" She shook her head. Even the thought of eating that small mint made her jeans clench tighter around her waist.

xxx

As she stepped off the restaurant step and onto the sidewalk, the moist late night air hit her hard. She swayed to the left, and felt Booth's arm link with hers, steadying her.

"They call this a pavement in England." She noted, as she took very deliberate steps back towards the tube station.

"I know."

"And they call that a "roundabout". She pointed to the turning circle ahead.

"Well I guess they both mean the same thing." Booth noticed that she leaned into him a little more forcefully as they quickened their pace. Maybe she was tipsier than he'd first thought.

They were a few hundred yards from the brightly-lit entrance to the tube station when the previously light fall of rain turned into a downpour. Booth tugged her along as they ran the rest of the way. Dashing into the station, they caught their breath before walking over to the ticket machine.

Booth searched in his pocket for change, finding none. "Screw this...let's get a cab."

"Agree. I'm tired...and it'h too bright in here."

"Are you drunk, Bones?" He grinned as she stumbled over the word.

"Of course not. You are."

"Me? What makes you say that?"

"Because you're all swayey."

"Um, that'll be you swaying, Bones." He reached out and placed both hands on her upper arms, he corrected her stance so that she was still. "There. That's better. See?"

"Oh."

He knew that showing her, actually proving his point, would save them time. "Yeah. So, let's get out of here."

They headed out into the heavy rain and jogged back down the main street. Where there were people, cabs were sure to follow. Booth spied the yellow glow of a taxi sign approaching just as Brennan yelled over the din of the rain "There's one! Booth!" They flagged the black taxi down and tumbled inside.

"Evening." Their driver surveyed them in his rear view mirror, his tone suggested a question.

"Hi. Can you take us to Southwark Park? Bones, what's the name of street?"

"I don't know. The apartments are called "The Heights.""

Their driver whistled, indicating that he knew of the plush apartment building. He put the car into gear and swung an illegal u-turn. "I'll have you there in ten minutes, give or take."

"Great. Thanks." Booth rested back into the seat and wiped his forehead free of rain. Not having anything to dry his hands on, he slid them back and forth over the thighs of his pants, which he noted with dismay, were soaked through.

He turned to look at Brennan. She was also trying to dry her face using the inside of the collar of her coat.

"I hate rain." She said as she gave up trying to stop rivulets of water running off her long hair and onto her face.

"Me too. It does that a lot here." He watched as a trickle of water worked its way down her forehead and onto the slope of her nose. Without thinking, he reached out and used the side of his index finger to swipe it away.

Brennan froze. She kept her eyes focused on the see-through panel in front and on the back of their driver's head. She knew that Booth was looking at her, studying her, waiting for her reaction. Why didn't she say yes to the Saudi expedition? If she had, this...this thing between them right now wouldn't be happening. Not going was a mistake. She'd been mulling over her decision for the past twenty-four hours, and letting it slip from her grasp had made her miserable and had put her on edge. She felt trapped - trapped in this car, trapped by him.

Booth realised his mistake when he saw her take a sharp intake of breath and hold onto it. What had possessed him to touch her? Maybe he was the drunken one of the two. No. That wasn't it. It was her, it was them – something had shifted, and clearly, he had picked up on it when she hadn't. He spoke her name softly, but she continued to stare ahead. Okay, so maybe he'd imagined the shift in dynamic. Maybe he'd imagined everything – but the way she had been looking at him all day, was that _really_ all in his head?

"Bones." He tried again, and fought the urge to reach for her hand. When she didn't respond, he resolved to stay quiet. He didn't see how anything he could say could cut through the tension between them. Saying nothing was the smart move. Saying nothing was what they did best at times like this.

Their driver was doing his utmost not to watch them in his mirror, but he was intrigued. For the past couple of minutes they hadn't spoken a single word. The woman was staring ahead, while the man stared at her. He slowed the car as he approached the set of traffic lights, flipping his wipers to a faster setting; he pulled to a gentle stop. Then he did what he always did when driving this way down Tooley Street late at night – he looked to his left. Tower Bridge shined against the cloudy night sky, and he immediately thought about his wife, who was waiting for him at home on the other side of the river. She'd done Shepherd's Pie for tea, his favourite. He pictured her scooping the mashed potato onto the still-steaming minced lamb and diced vegetables and then sprinkling on some strong cheddar. The blue and white stripped apron she always wore would only just reach around her very pregnant stomach, the bow at the back barely holding. She would place the pie in the oven and then stand up, pausing to massage the small of her back before setting the table for two. He knew she couldn't work out the kinks like he could. It was a matter of access and the right amount of pressure. He'd become expert these past few months. He'd make this his last fare.

The lights turned to amber, then green. He set off again. The rain pelted the windscreen even harder and the wipers couldn't keep up.

He glanced in his mirror. He saw the woman turn to look at the man. She sighed and placed the fingers of her right hand against his mouth. The man looked surprised, but said nothing.

He turned his attention again to the road ahead, just in time to see a motorbike cross ten or so yards in front of him before turning sharply into a side street. He cursed the idiot driver and sounded his horn, and then he flicked his gaze back to his passengers. His outburst clearly hadn't registered with them.

The woman leaned in and kissed the man.

He smiled, looked again at the road ahead as best he could, and thought of home.

* * *

_**Thanks for reading. :)**_


	10. Same Old Heartbreak

**_AN: Isn't it nice to have "Bones" back on our screens? *wonders if question mark was needed* :D_  
**

* * *

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Ten: Same Old Heartbreak**

Harriet Randall was trying with everything she possessed to hold it together. On the back of the morning from hell (which had been a most unwelcome follow-up to the night of torturous misery), she now found herself stuck on an baking hot and overcrowded train, which had been held up approaching Clapham Junction Station. That morning she'd had a stand-up row with her husband. They rarely argued, and even though they both understood that their frustration was as a result of too little sleep, once they started taking it out on each other, they couldn't seem to stop. In the end, both kids had joined the chaos and all of them had ended up in tears. It wasn't their finest moment as parents but she'd long ago abandoned the idea that they wouldn't screw up every now and then. Actually, if her own parents were anything to go by, she and Dave were doing just fine; they were ahead of the curve, in fact.

She dialled her partner's number and waited for him to pick up.

"Rob here."

"I'm stuck on the bloody tube. I'm going to be late in."

"Where are you?"

"Just outside Clapham Junction. There's some sort of problem with the train ahead of us...sorry."

"No worries. You'll be here when you're here."

"Obviously." She said sharply, and then winced. Clearly, she was still in a fighting mood.

"You alright, Har?"

"Yes. No. It's just been a hellish few hours. Sorry for snapping at you."

"Forget it."

"Have our American friends made it in yet?"

"Agent Booth is here. In fact, he was here before me – the man obviously isn't afraid of an early start. Doctor Brennan called in sick."

"She did?"

"Agent Booth seemed surprised. I got the feeling this is a very rare occurrence. Anyway, while I have you, we need to drop by and see Trent's flatmate, the one that reported him missing. Seeing as we're having no luck tracing Trent's parents, we may as well start with him."

"Okay."

Harriet was then thrust forward as the train moved off again. The phone she was holding fell onto the floor and she rushed to pick it up before someone trod on it.

"Har?"

"I'm here. Bloody driver! We're on the move again. No…wait…we've stopped."

"Okay, I'll..."

"Oh, fuckshitbugger!"

"What now?"

"I've got baby rice all down the front of my jacket!"

Rob smiled but didn't allow his good humour to seep into his tone. He knew his life wouldn't be worth living if he did so. A stressed-out Harriet was not someone you wanted to trifle with, even in jest. As he hung up, he again thanked his lucky stars that his life was far less complicated. He'd dodged a bullet with Sophie – smart, fun and fantastic-in-bed she might have been, but the woman was as mad as a box of frogs. Backing out on their wedding was the best move he'd ever made, despite the fact that by doing so he'd ended up paying for all of things they couldn't cancel in time. Eight months later, he was still making monthly credit card payments on a honeymoon to Mauritius that never was.

Pushing aside Sidibe's latest report, he reached for his Tottenham Hotspur mug. He'd spend the time waiting for Harriet preparing for their meeting with Matthew Trent's flatmate.

"Booth, can I get you a brew?"

When he saw the confused look cross the other man's face, he laughed, and then explained that he wanted to know if he could get him a hot drink. The agent thanked him but shook his head.

Leaving the office for the small kitchenette, he couldn't help wondering if Doctor Brennan really was under the weather. He wasn't expert in deciphering subtext or body language, or whatever else it was that allowed Harriet to wheedle out people's secrets, but something was off with the bloke. God only knew what time he'd arrived that morning, but Rob had made it in just after seven. Since then, the agent had read-though Sidibe's report and the ever-growing record of interviews and statements by Trent's friends and colleagues, and answered emails waiting for him back at the FBI. The man seemed to have an endless supply of energy. Frankly, Rob was starting to feel lax by comparison.

Booth waited until Rob left to make himself a drink - then he called her. He couldn't keep his knee from jumping up and down or the fingers of his free hand from drumming against the desk top as he waited for Brennan to pick up. She didn't. And she_always_ picked up...well, except that one time when she was chewing Jared out. He didn't leave a message.

He set the phone down on the desk with too much force than could be good for it. She hadn't even bothered to call him to say she wasn't going to make it in. Instead, she'd emailed Rob, who then gave him the news. Brennan wasn't sick, of that he was certain. What she was doing was hiding, and he was so mad with her that he couldn't think straight.

xxx

Later that day: King's Road, Chelsea

Jason Kemple-Smith couldn't believe he was having this conversation. Matty was dead. Dead? It didn't seem or feel possible – and he couldn't stop thinking that any minute now Matt would appear at the front door, more than a little mortified about all the fuss he'd caused.

Rob felt for the slightly-built, blonde man who was seated in front of them on an identical oversized beige sofa. The bloke was clearly still in a state of shock. He'd asked them five times during the course of the past ten minutes if they were sure that it was Trent's body that they had pulled from the river. Each time, Harriet had gently and patiently explained that there was no doubt. Jason would then nod, take a deep breath, and continue answering their questions – only to ask them for confirmation again a short while later.

"Okay, Jason, I just need to recap. You and Mr Trent became friends at boarding school, a little over fourteen years ago, and you've been flatmates for the past two years?"

"That's right."

"And you became concerned for Mr Trent when you returned from your business trip to Rome last weekend...which...erm...would have been the 21st, to find the flat empty. Since coming home, you say that you called, texted and emailed Mr Trent but received no answer to any of your communications."

"Yes. I _knew_ something wasn't right. Matt would have told me if he was going away somewhere, and besides, he only got back from Afghanistan a few weeks ago. He was grateful to be home again."

"You say that you tried calling his Grandmother, a Mrs Durand, repeatedly over the past few days but couldn't reach her. Can I ask, why call his grandmother, why not either of his parents?"

"Matty didn't get on with his mother. She left when he was five or six...went off with some Russian artist. She sent the occasional postcard and letter, but they weren't close. He got on okay with his dad, but Mr Trent would go away for months at a time on business and so he spent most of his time, before he moved in here, living at his grandmother's place in Kent."

"Do you have his grandmother's address to hand?"

"I have it stored on my phone...just a minute..."

Booth used the break in conversation to ask a question of his own. He knew he should hang back, but something was bugging him, something was off somehow. The other man wasn't just upset, he was distraught and lost. He'd seen the same expression on too many faces over the years.

"You said earlier that Matthew wasn't in a relationship. But could he have been seeing someone casually, without you knowing it?"

"No. Matt wasn't like that."

"Like what?"

"Like what you're suggesting. He...he didn't play around...Matty wanted a family, kids...and I..."

"You and Matthew..." Booth let the words hang for a second. The blonde man looked up at him, his blue eyes bloodshot and tired, and nodded. Then he gave into the tears that had been threatening since they had entered the expensive loft-style apartment in Chelsea.

"There wasn't anyone else...for either of us."

Rob looked at Harriet. As he suspected, she was staring daggers at the agent. He wondered if she'd twigged that Trent was gay - probably. He, on the other hand, hadn't even considered the possibility. He felt the sofa give a little as Harriet leaned towards the grieving man.

"Jason, we're sorry for your loss. Can you tell us for how long you and Mr Trent were in a relationship?"

"We were on again off again in the last year at school...but nobody knew. After school, we went our separate ways, but we stayed in touch, just as friends. Then, a few years ago we met at the wedding reception of a mutual friend. Shortly after that we got together."

"So the second time, when you reconnected, how long from that point until now?"

"Just under three years. Matt moved in here with me about a year ago. I...I...have that address you wanted."

"That's great, thank you." Harriet jotted down the address in her notebook.

"She doesn't know. Matthew didn't tell anyone in his family about us."

"Had he told them he was gay?" She questioned, but she could tell from the pained look on his face that the answer would be no.

"I wanted him to. It was the only thing we ever fought about. But I understood. Matty's family is...well, they're connected, you know? Mrs Durand is worth millions and Matt's father is some big-shot marketing manager. They expected great things of him. And he was making good on all their expectations, bar one."

"They wanted him to get married." Harriet confirmed softly.

"Yes. His grandmother even arranged a couple of introductions for him. That's how she put it. He went on the blind dates just so he didn't upset her but always managed to find a reason why it wasn't going to work out. I told him that he should just be straight with her. She loved him like a son. Then, a few months ago, his father set him up with this girl. She was the niece of one of his American clients. He stalled for weeks, but eventually he ran out of excuses for why he couldn't meet up with her. They went out a few times. Matty said she was a real laugh. The last time he saw her was last week. He called me while I was in Rome to tell me about his 'big date'. The pressure was on because they'd been invited to attend some function his father's firm was putting on for their clients...you know the thing."

Harriet nodded, but she really didn't know. Matthew Trent's world of millionaire grandmothers, boarding school and fancy apartments in Chelsea was nothing like hers.

"Anyway, it was a disaster. Matt said that his father kept on dropping these big hints about them getting engaged. Usually he could laugh it off, pretend that he'd rather play the field, you know, but this time his father tried to pin him down. I got the feeling that the girl's father was a favoured client, someone Mr Trent's firm wanted to keep sweet. They argued. I don't know...maybe Matty had enough – he told me he stormed out."

"Do you think Matthew told his father about his sexuality?"

"No. No way. He would have told me if he had. He said they argued about the fact that he wasn't ready to settle down. He left the party with her...Natalie...that was her name. Natalie Miles."

"Did you speak with Matthew again before you returned home?" Rob asked as he stretched out his long legs. The sofa they were sat on was low to the floor and his large frame didn't take kindly to being folded almost in two. Two seats over, Agent Booth looked similarly uncomfortable.

"I spoke to him the night before I left Rome. I was in a hurry. I'm a sculptor, and I'd been showing my work at a gallery. Someone was interested in two of my pieces...I...I told Matt that I couldn't speak for long because the couple that ended up buying my stuff wanted to meet me."

Rob watched as Jason broke down again. He really hated this part of the job. Witnessing someone's heart breaking was not something you could prepare yourself for. It was different, yet somehow the same every time. People said different things. Some cried, some couldn't summon a single word from anywhere, while others hoped to silence you by running away or trying to punch your lights out. But they all had that haunted, lost look in their eyes.

They waited for Jason to become calm again, and then Harriet assured him that they only had a couple more questions to ask.

"Jason, I wonder if you know how and when Matthew sustained the old injury to his leg. We suspect..."

"It happened while he was over there."

"In Afghanistan?"

"Yes. He...he...all he would tell me was that he got into it with a couple of guys from his unit. He tried to gloss over it...tried to tell me that it had been an accident, but I knew better. What you need to understand is that Matthew is exceptional. Not only is he smarter than everyone in his unit but he's a gifted pilot. He was awarded the Queen's Medal, you know. While he was at Sandhurst, he scored the highest marks of all the cadets in military, practical and academic studies.

People are jealous of him. It…it started small. Inane notes left in his shoes, glue spread onto the seat in his jet, clothes going missing from his wardrobe, only to end up tied to a fence somewhere or ripped to shreds and shoved in his pillowcase. It isn't anything he can't handle...that's what he said."

It was hard to ignore that part way through his explanation Jason had referred to the dead man in the present tense. Booth kept his sigh to himself. He'd seen enough of the type of bullshit the other man was describing during his time in the military. The kid might not see it, might not want to see it, but he'd bet that Trent had been singled out because he was gay. The fact that he was smart and a gifted pilot just gave the assholes that were bullying him more reason to hate him.

"Did Matthew tell you the names of the people involved?" Rob asked.

"No." Jason wiped his eyes temporarily free of tears and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Okay, just one more question. Mr Trent, Matthew's dad – do you have a contact number for him?"

"Yes, but just a mobile number. I'm not sure if he's in the UK or overseas...I've been trying to call him. That's why I pushed to get that article in the paper. I couldn't get hold of anyone!"

Rob jotted down the phone number and they finished up the interview. As they walked over to the front door, he looked back over to the sofa. Jason looked up at that same moment.

"You're sure it's Matty?"

He felt like a monster when he confirmed it for the sixth time.

xxx

"Okay, so I'll look into this faux-girlfriend of Trent's and you try and get a hold of the father and speak to the millionaire grandma."

"Deal." Rob agreed, as he maneuvered the squad car away from the pavement and into the steady flow of mid-day traffic. From time to time, he looked in his rear view mirror to check what was behind them. Each time he did so, he saw that the man in the backseat was concentrating on the cell phone in his hand. Something was definitely not right. In the short time he'd known Agent Booth, he understood him to be very talkative and infinitely curious as to how their detection techniques and processes might differ or align – the fact that he seemingly had nothing to say now, struck him as odd. In fact, apart from asking that question of Trent's boyfriend, he had barely spoken since they left for Chelsea an hour before.

To compensate for the frankly awkward silence that had descended, Rob did what he always did in such situations; he talked crap for the rest of the journey back to Southwark. A few times, Harriet shot him a quizzical look or rolled her eyes in exasperation, but he managed to keep a conversation afloat (a conversation that occasionally included the other man) until they reached the police station.

Who knew that the tension that had been present all morning would pale in significance to the highly charged dynamic that replaced it once they made it back inside the building. They were greeted by the sound of laughter as they climbed the stairs to the CID Unit. One voice deep, the other pitched higher, lighter. Rob recognised Doctor Sidibe's laugh, despite only hearing it a few times – the coroner was not, in his experience, usually the most jovial of men. But something had amused him.

Booth tensed the moment he heard her voice. It was one thing to be mad at her when she wasn't there, but now he was going to have check his tone and his actions, or else risk scattering their partnership to the wind. They needed to work out what last night meant and what it _could_ mean for them. But then he walked through the office door and saw the way she was smiling at Doctor Death, the way her body angled towards him, the way her voice had taken on that breathless quality that hit him in the gut and most times someplace lower and he realised that he couldn't take anything for granted.

He watched her take a step away from the doctor upon hearing them enter the room. Then she looked at him and he had no time to mask or hide his anger. As he stared back, heart pounding in his chest, his stomach a whirling mess of acidic tension, he thought about how that kiss in the taxi had escalated. How she had gripped his shirt and pulled him tight to her, the way that her hands eagerly roamed his chest until settling around his waist. Despite his anger, he was the first to look away.

"Doctor Brennan, I'm so pleased you're feeling better." Harriet said smiling as she placed her handbag down on her desk.

"I am sorry about this morning. I feel much better now." Brennan smiled back at Harriet before again flicking her eyes to Booth.

"So you're okay?" He managed in a voice that didn't sound like his own.

"Yes. Just a headache. I'm perfectly fine now." Her hand hovered just below her collarbone, as if trying to shield herself from him, and all he could think about at that moment was how when he had kissed her throat she tasted like the rain.

"Excellent." Rob said brightly as he took a seat. "So, Doctor Sidibe, to what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Actually, I came here looking for Doctor Brennan. I've been called away on another case, the timing of which is most inopportune…I wanted to say goodbye in person."

"You got landed with the Sonos murder?" Rob asked as he browsed his latest batch of emails.

"Unfortunately, yes. You are aware that homicide hasn't been established."

"But wasn't he found missing his head?"

"Yes."

"So then, isn't it kind of a given that he didn't take his own life?"

Doctor Sidibe tuned out the police officer, not because he wished to be rude, but he only had a few more minutes before he needed to leave and he still hadn't gotten around to asking Doctor Brennan for her phone number. He should have asked her the moment he found her alone at the station, but they had started discussing some of the more high profile cases they had both worked and then about his plans to one day return home to Mali. Time, as it so often did in such situations, slipped by in an instant. And now he had an audience. He could of course ask for her number, one professional to another, but he wanted to be clear that he wished to contact her in a personal capacity.

"Doctor Brennan, might I have a word with you?"

"Yes." She replied but made no move to follow him when he slowly turned and started walking towards the door.

Booth smiled despite himself. Sidibe obviously wanted to get her on her own before he asked her out, or over to his place, or whatever else he might have had in mind, but Bones being Bones hadn't picked up on the implied request. He placed his hand at the side of his mouth and stage whispered, "I think he wants you to follow him, Bones. You know, get a little one-on-one time with you."

"Oh. Why didn't he just say that?" She followed after the doctor.

Harriet glanced over at Rob and then quickly looked away before they both cracked up laughing. Doctor Brennan was brilliant, of that there was clearly no doubt, but when it came to interpersonal matters, she didn't seem to be on the same page. Agent Booth on the other had seemed to posses the ability present in all good investigators – the ability to read a situation and the people in it. Together they made a formidable team.

Brennan reached the doorway where Sidibe was waiting, a rare, shy smile softening his handsome but usually stern face. He was surprised by how nervous he felt. He was about to speak when she picked up the thread of their previous conversation.

"So what will you do when you return to Mali?"

"Open a clinic. I have friends there, doctors, who want to help get it off the ground. It is important for me to give back to my family and to Koulikoro."

"And you think this will make you content?"

"Yes, in part. But I also want to return to the world of pure science. There is always much to learn, much to experience."

"Will you find it difficult to leave your life here behind?"

He thought about his answer, and not for the first time realised that expressing his feelings came easier when speaking in Bamanankan. Sometimes, English fell short, or couldn't quite describe the sentiment behind the words.

"Yiri be se ka sigi ji kono san chaman, nka a te se ka be ke bama ye."

"I am familiar with the saying."

"You know, despite taking on this job as a result of circumstance, I do enjoy it. It's challenging and important, but it's not enough to sustain me long term. My future lies elsewhere. It always has."

"But you have friends…ties…won't you…" Brennan couldn't seem to finish the thought. She turned to look behind her. Booth was nowhere to be seen.

"Saying goodbye is always the hardest part."

"Yes. Yes it is." She answered softly.

* * *

_**AN: So, the good Doctor Sidibe exits stage left. I'll miss him.**_

_**By the way, the Malian saying above translates to (according to Google): "A piece of wood [a log][a wood canoe made from a log] can sit in the water many years, but it won't become a crocodile." Apparently, this is used to describe Peace Corps Volunteers – they can stay in Mali for a long time, but they won't become Malian.**_

_**Thanks for reading.**_


	11. Within Touching Distance

_**AN: If anyone's still reading this (I truly wouldn't blame you if you'd given up on me), here's the next chapter. Remember when Brennan mentioned that her friend, Prof Woods, had invited them over to his place for dinner? Actually, you probably don't - it was so bloody long ago. Anyway, he did. Here's what happens.**_

* * *

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Eleven: Within Touching Distance**

* * *

Car headlights shone brightly before passing her by and leaving her once again in the shadow of late evening. She'd opted to take the train over to her friend's apartment inside of calling for a cab, and now, having just left the cover of Belsize Park Tube Station, she realised the error of her ways. The rainclouds, which had blanketed the sky as she walked from her apartment to catch the train, were now emptying their seemingly endless contents onto the people of London.

Brennan picked up the pace, not wanting to show up soaked-through. But as she turned the corner onto David's street, she knew she wasn't going to be able to avoid it. A couple of minutes later, she rang the doorbell of the smart grey-brick building and wiped the wet hair out of her eyes and tried to dry her face with the sleeve of her coat.

"Temperance...come in, come in!" David Woods beckoned as he opened the door and took in the sight of his dripping-wet friend. Brennan stepped inside and eased off her coat, careful to avoid spraying water all over the elegantly decorated hallway.

David took her coat and disappeared into a room to her left, returning a couple of seconds later with a white towel. "For you. Did you take the tube over here?"

"Yes. It wouldn't have been so bad, but I forgot that you live a couple of blocks away from the station." Brennan explained as she patted her face dry of water, and with it went the light cover of make-up she'd applied earlier. She handed the towel back to her friend and smiled an apology for the tan and grey smudges which ruined the whiteness.

"And what are we going to do about your hair? I don't possess a hairdryer...another towel it is." He hurried away again. Brennan looked down and stared at her shoes and then at her jeans, which were plastered to her skin from the knees down. She slipped off her flats and placed them to the side of the front door, out of the way. She then reached down and prised the damp denim away from her rapidly cooling skin.

"Here you are." David said as he returned with another towel. "And I think we're going to need to stick those jeans in the tumble...or the 'dryer', as you Yanks refer to it."

"I think that might be best. But..."

"Come with me." He led Brennan into the room to her left and hurried over to the tumble dryer. Like the hallway, the small, well-appointed utility room was spotlessly clean. "I'll leave you to it – to turn it on, just turn the knob to the right and press the yellow button. There are more clean towels in the cupboard behind you."

"Thank you." She was already thinking about how good it would feel to get out of her wet jeans.

"I'll go fix you a huge glass of wine and be back in a jiffy".

Brennan heard the door close behind her and she wriggled free of her jeans. She placed them in the dryer and followed David's instructions. Then she set about doing something with her hair.

She didn't hear the doorbell when it rang - the noise from the dryer muffling the sound. But she heard his voice. She heard his voice, and the sound of it hit her square in the stomach.

"Welcome...do come in."

"Thanks. Wow, you have a nice place here."

"We like it. Here, let me take your coat. Now, before we go any further, is it "Seeley", or "Booth"?"

"I prefer Booth."

"Excellent. Booth it is."

Brennan pressed her ear to the door and listened. The two men made more small talk...something about the weather...something about her...then she heard footsteps and she knew they had gone upstairs. She walked back over to the dryer and opened the door. Her jeans were nowhere close to being dry and so she closed the door again, and barefoot, she began to pace the tiled floor, stopping now and again to look at the black and white photographs which adorned one of the walls. They were mostly of landscapes, some of which were familiar to her. She wondered if David had taken them.

A few minutes later, she heard a knock at the door. "Temperance, I have your wine."

"Come in." She said, smoothing her black shirt down so that it settled just below the tops of her thighs.

"You 'do' dishevelled better than anyone I know." David smiled as he looked her up and down. Then he handed her, as promised, a very large glass of red wine. "I also brought you a robe and some socks, in case you were cold."

"I'm fine, thank you. The under-floor heating helps."

"So, your man has arrived."

"Booth is not 'my man', David." She felt an unexpected smile tug at the corners of her mouth, which she quickly shielded from view with her wine glass.

"Of _course_ he isn't. But I have to wonder why the mere mention of his name has put that simply adorable smile on your face? What? You thought I didn't see?"

"I..."

"You know what? Hold that thought. I've just remembered that I've forgotten to turn up the oven. We'll be eating dinner at midnight at this rate."

As he closed the door behind him, Brennan took a greedy mouthful of the excellent wine and willed the blush that she knew was tracking a path from her throat to her cheeks to go away. But just then, unbidden, the memory of what it had been like to kiss Booth had her reeling, and the blush turned into a slow, unrelenting burn.

The memory of the sensation of his tongue pressing teasingly against her own caused her to tighten her grip on the slender glass stem, and even though she took another drink, her mouth remained dry. The tender way that he had responded to her urgent first kisses had surprised her. When all she wanted was to finally give in, he had held back. And then, when they climbed out of the taxi, and she had a second to think about what she had done, she had then been the one who tried to slow the pace. But the way he reached for her, and held the back of her head as he kissed her hard, recklessly even, made her stop thinking entirely.

Brennan shivered as she stood there half-undressed, the monotonous thumping of the dryer sounding somewhere to her right. She closed her eyes, this time willing the memories to take shape.

She recalled the feeling of his warm breath against the back of her head as she opened the door to her apartment building. Once inside, he slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her tight to him. With her back resting against his chest, she reached around blindly, needing to touch him also. She felt the material of his shirt in her hand and tugged. He then took one of his hands from around her waist and grasped her hand in his own. Drawing her fingers to his lips, she held her breath as he kissed the tips of two of her fingers and then closed his mouth around them.

She had wanted time to think as they stepped onto the elevator. But once the doors closed behind them, he spun her round and then walked her back slowly until she had felt the hard wall behind her. He stared into her eyes, and she wished she was better at this. "Bones" was all he said as he looked at her in a way that made her want to hide. Maybe he was silently asking her if this was really where she wanted to be. Or maybe he was looking for a sign that she wasn't, in the end, going to end up hurting him. She didn't know what answer she had given; all she knew was that they didn't stop.

Brennan opened her eyes because it was too much. What she felt was too much. The way he had touched her, tasted her and knew her was too much. She took another sip of wine and stared at the door. The urge to run had never felt so powerful.


	12. Flight Risk

_**AN: Thank you ever so for your kind reviews. I really appreciate you taking time out to tell me what you thought, and to help convince me that this story is still worth writing, albeit at a snail's pace.  
**_

**_I dedicate this next chapter to the lovely, JSQ - 'cause I like to prove her wrong. :)_  
**

* * *

**The Officer in the Oubliette**

**Chapter Twelve: Flight Risk **

Booth took a sip of his red wine and surveyed the view from the dining room window which looked out onto the street below. The rain hadn't let up and the street was still busy with traffic and people. Different coloured umbrellas vied for position on the sidewalk, and out of nowhere, he suddenly felt homesick. Things with Bones had turned upside down, inside out and forever over the past couple of days, and right now all he wanted was to be home again so that they could work through what the hell they were going to do about it. Being in London didn't feel like work, it felt like a vacation, and maybe this thing with Bones had the potential to be nothing but a fleeting step over that carefully observed line of theirs, and that once they got back home, they would get back on the right side and chalk the whole thing up to a holiday fling, or something else which would obscure the truth. Right now, he didn't want distance. He wanted to be home, with her, sorting this thing out.

"I feel I should apologise for the poor weather."

Booth turned away from the window. "It's funny, whenever I picture London, I think of it raining. But actually, the two times I've visited, it hasn't rained all that much. And unlike some places back home when it rains it doesn't seem to last all that long."

"That's true. Also, we seem to get a lot of rain over the summer months. Come over in April or May next time, it's often very mild and sunny."

Just then, Booth heard someone coming up the stairs, and his grip on his glass tightened. But it wasn't Brennan.

"Sorry. Sorry. I'm unforgivably late, I know."

"Trouble at the shop?" David said, as he kissed the dark haired man on the cheek, all the while trying not to show how cross he truly was.

"Yup. Bloody parts didn't turn up until closing. By then I'd sent Becca and Andy home, and so I had to sort through the order to check it was all there. I'm sorry."

The athletic, well-built man then looked over at their guest and smiled warmly. "It's Seeley, right? It's nice to meet you." Booth shook the other man's outstretched hand.

"He prefers "Booth", that's right, isn't it?" David interjected with a smile, and then took over the introductions.

"Booth, this is my partner, Aiden."

"Aiden, this is Special Agent Booth of the FBI...and the lovely Doctor Brennan should be with us momentarily. The poor thing got drenched coming over here, and so she's just drying out her jeans."

Aiden nodded knowingly and then turned again to Booth. "So, we've been so looking forward to your visit, and now you're finally here. Welcome."

"Thank you. It's nice to be here, and thank you both for inviting me."

"It's our pleasure. So you work for the FBI - wow. For some reason, I can't get that TV programme out of my mind...the one that all takes place over twenty four hours...the one with that bloke with the equally famous dad...you know the one...the clock ticks down an hour an episode, and right at the end, he works it all out...argh, what's it called again?"

"24." Booth said with a smile.

"That's the one. I guess the title was staring me right there in the face, huh? Anyway, that's what I'm picturing...please don't disappoint me and tell me working for the FBI is nothing like that."

"Um, it's mostly nothing like that, and not just because it was a made-up government agency in that show. Sorry."

"But you and Doctor Brennan are real life crime solvers. That has to be exciting work."

"We've had our fair share of excitement, yes."

"Excellent. Perhaps we can quiz you two about it later. It ought to make for some interesting dinner conversation."

"Hmm, just don't get Brennan started on the subject of our last case. Or at least wait until you've finished eating first. So, what line of work are you in, Aiden?"

"I restore vintage cars. I have a workshop over in Chelsea. That's why I'm late, actually. We were waiting on some parts from overseas and they finally arrived today."

"What are you working on at the moment?"

"A 1964 Shelby Cobra Daytona Coupe – she's in a sorry state at the moment, but the parts we got today should see her back on the road again."

"That car helped American Racing to win the '65 manufacturer's title, right?"

"Yes. You know your cars, my friend."

"So what does one of those fetch in today's market?"

"Hard to say, but the first model, the CXS2287, went for just shy of four and a half million dollars back in 2001. The one I have in the shop is a later model, but ballpark, you're probably not going to get much change out of two million quid...so closer, I guess, to three and a half million US dollars."

Booth let forth a long whistle.

"You should come by the shop if you have time before you guys head home."

"Really?"

"Sure. Come by, I'll show you the Cobra...we also have a really nice Benz and a couple of Alfa's. Actually, I have an Alfa in the garage. It's a work in progress, but if you're interested..."

"Definitely!"

"Well dinner won't be for a while yet..." David said, smiling. He easily recognised the excited gleam in his guest's eyes; because it mirrored exactly the look he'd seen light up his boyfriend's face. It was a mixture of childlike excitement and restrained envy.

Not needing any more prompting than that, Booth followed Aiden through the dining room, into the large, aroma-filled kitchen, and then back down the stairs until they reached the front door.

"We don't have access to the garage from the house, I'm afraid. It's around back. Do you wanna grab your coat, or shall we make a run for it?"

"Nah, after you." Booth motioned to the door. The two men then hurried out the door and raced around to the back of the three storey terraced house.

xxx

Brennan slid the warm denim up her long legs and fastened the button with slightly shaking hands. She still wanted to run. It would be so easy to do so. Just reach for the door handle, tip-toe out of the room, grab her shoes, open the front door and _run_. She could be packed in no time and at Heathrow within the hour, probably. And from there she could just disappear. No more Jeffersonian, no more murders, no more distracting relationships and no more Booth. It was simply a matter of walking out of that room.

And then she wouldn't have to say goodbye. She didn't _want _to say goodbye. Maybe because she knew she couldn't.

xxx

David stirred the rich tomato sauce and then turned the gas down as far as it would go under the heavy-bottomed saucepan. Aiden and Booth had been gone for the best part of thirty minutes and there was still no sign of Temperance. His hope for an evening of good conversation and merriment wasn't exactly going the way he'd planned. And, come to think of it, why _was_ she taking so long?

He quickly checked on the roasted potatoes crisping in the oven before untying his apron and placing it over a nearby chair. He then made his way downstairs. He knocked on the door of the laundry room and waited. Hearing nothing, he knocked again. Still hearing nothing from inside, he opened the door and peered into the empty room. The tumble dryer was switched off, but he still walked in and checked inside the machine – that, too, was empty.

xxx

David closed the door of the laundry room and then jumped as he heard movement behind him.

"Temperance!" God, you gave me a fright."

"Sorry. I needed to use the bathroom." She was still holding her wine glass, now empty.

"No need to apologise - you took me by surprise is all. So, are you ready for dinner? My signature sauce is simmering its way to perfection and I'm keen to talk more about the Saudi trip."

"I'm ready, yes. Um, did I hear Booth's voice earlier?" She asked, trying not to appear overly interested in the answer. But all the while her heart was pounding in her chest.

"Yes. He and Aiden have bonded over old cars – they're around back looking at that bloody wreck of a car that Aid swears will be worth a small fortune one of these days."

"And you don't share his view?" She queried as she followed him back upstairs.

"He's the expert, of course - but all I know is we've sunk a small fortune into it already, and at this point, I can't see us getting a decent return on our money. But then, it really isn't about the money. It's about doing something that you love. And Aiden loves cars."

When they walked back into the warm kitchen, he fixed her another glass of wine and poured one for himself. He then led her through to the cosy dining room, and she took a seat at the rectangular glass table and tried to pull herself together. So she slept with Booth. So what? It was a perfectly normal thing to have happened. They were both single, attractive people. It would be odd if it didn't happen eventually.

"Please excuse me for a second, Temperance. I need to throw some more herbs into the sauce and then we're about done. In fact...ah, excellent timing...that'll be them coming back now."

Brennan was left alone as her friend hurried off to see to dinner. She took a sip of her wine and then set the glass back down. Then she picked up her napkin and slipped the pressed ivory fabric out of the shiny metal napkin ring. She smoothed it over her lap, and then took another drink. Then another. She was just raising the glass to her lips for the fourth time in fairly quick succession when she heard him say her name.

"Bones."

She looked up and met his warm brown eyes, and just like that she remembered what it felt like to be in his arms. She couldn't help herself – her eyes drifted down to his mouth, and it was as though he was kissing her again. Forcing her eyes back to his, she tried to get a read on the myriad emotions that she saw there.

"So, this should be an interesting night." Booth said as he took a seat opposite her.

She smiled weakly. She should have run when she had the chance.


End file.
